


B-Sides

by Theladyknight23



Series: Shining Stanzas [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Canon? Don't Know Her, F/F, Female Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Female Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Jaskier and Ciri are chaotic buds, Jaskier's disastrous first gig, With Monsters, little bit of canon typical violence, more exploration of the AU world from Late Night Remixes, more late night monster hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27031036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theladyknight23/pseuds/Theladyknight23
Summary: Needless to say, in all of Jaskier’s grand aspirations for this first gig, she never dreamed of this.Her ex, scowling at the bar. Geralt’s ex, looking around with cool derision. Two underaged kids hiding in her dressing room. Her opening band looking about two seconds from a fistfight.And now this.The love of her life, the Witcher of her dreams, hesitantly approaching. Hands raised as if attempting to placate a wild animal. An awkward, forced smile pasted on her face.“There’s a bruxa here,” said Geralt.“Are you,” Jaskier lowered her sunglasses to glare at the Witcher, “fucking kidding me?”--The story of Jaskier's disastrous first gig.A sequel to my modern AU, Late Night Remixes.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Shining Stanzas [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1887478
Comments: 36
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to [Late Night Remixes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26188918/chapters/63729535) my AU of an AU, with Geralt and Ciri as urban monster hunters, and Jaskier as the "bard" who stumbled into their world.

Jaskier didn’t know what she expected.

Actually, she did. Ever since the record had been locked down, a venue found and booked, she had spent every free moment crafting elaborate visions of how the night would unfold. A grand, sparkling night of applause and adoration. Critics throwing themselves at her feet, audiences weeping with the beauty of her music. Her little merch table overwhelmed by demands for her CDs, people desperate to buy the DIY screen-printed t-shirts Triss, Ciri and Dara helped her make. Logically, she was aware that it took time to build up proper, lasting fame. But that didn’t stop her from dreaming, from jittering with excitement every time she looked at the half dozen event posters she taped up on her wall. When she dreamed of this night she let her imagination go wild. It was going to be the beginning of the rest of her life.

Geralt, dear heart that she was, withstood many early morning and late-night calls with Jaskier ranting and chattering with excitement. It was going to be the best breakout show in the history of independent music. It was going to be a fiery disaster and Jaskier would have to move across the country, dye her hair and change her name. Jaskier was sure she could pull off blonde, but then she would have to invest in a new wardrobe. Geralt listened, grunting and humming thoughtfully while Jaskier talked herself out. Then Geralt patiently reminded Jaskier that she was brilliant. Jaskier knew that she was brilliant. But sometimes you really needed to hear it from someone else.

One evening, Geralt picked up her phone with a grunt, and Jaskier managed to make most of her way through a rant about contracts and streaming services before realizing that the dull thudding and muted shrieks on the other end of the line was Geralt fighting some creature. This was so marvellously romantic Jaskier felt her cheeks flush. It was also probably extremely dangerous, regardless of Geralt’s reassurances that she was trained to fight one-handed. After a moment of basking in the knowledge that Geralt cared enough to pick up the phone no matter what she was doing, Jaskier forced her to put Ciri on. Jaskier let Ciri complain about math problem sheets, periodically interjecting snide remarks noting just how ridiculous math was, until Geralt finished. Once she was certain that the Witcher was no longer in any sort of danger, Jaskier gleefully started back into her rant.

Needless to say, in all of Jaskier’s grand aspirations for this first gig, she never dreamed of this.

Her ex, scowling at the bar.

Geralt’s ex, looking around with cool derision.

Two underaged kids hiding in her dressing room.

Her opening band looking about two seconds from a fistfight.

The sound booth radiating forbidding sparks.

And now this.

The love of her life, the Witcher of her dreams, hesitantly approaching. Hands raised as if attempting to placate a feral animal. An awkward, forced smile pasted on her face.

“There’s a bruxa here,” said Geralt.

“Are you,” Jaskier lowered her sunglasses to glare at the Witcher, “fucking kidding me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chance to do some more worldbuilding, as I continue to twist canon for my own purposes.
> 
> I blame a childhood spent rereading Tamora Pierce for all of this


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 months earlier, part 1

It began, if such disasters could be said to have a distinctive beginning, three months earlier.

The days were getting warmer, the ghouls were crawling back out of their sewers, and Jaskier’s head was spinning. The last couple of weeks had been a frantic dash of music and coffee. Her mind was foggy, her skin felt too tight, and she couldn’t get this random refrain out of her head. She could almost feel the contours of the song, the pieces that would fit together just so, but they gleefully jumped beyond her grasp. This did not stop her from tearing through half a notebook in her frustration or sitting at her piano, plonking away at random keys for hours. She went and went until her fingers cramped and the floor was littered with dead darlings.

The song was there. She knew it was. She just didn’t know how to find it, and her desperate attempts to pin it down were only sending it spiralling further away. She was, truth to be told, about three seconds away from screaming. She texted Geralt just as much hours before, lying face down on her bed and groaning. Geralt’s response was almost immediate, which meant that she was dictating to Ciri. The green bubble sprang onto Jaskier’s phone with a little electronic whoosh, informing her that she needed a distraction. Geralt would pick her up at 10:30 pm. The second text came almost two minutes later, adding that Jaskier should attempt to wear something appropriate for the weather and the occasion. Jaskier grinned and heaved herself off her bed, sliding over to her bursting closet to select the perfect outfit.

So now Jaskier was standing outside of her front door, rocking back and forth on her heels, steadfastly humming “Mr. Brightside” in a bid to distract herself from her own musical mishaps. A middle-aged woman, out with her miniature schnauzer, openly stared as she walked by. Jaskier offered her a cheery little wave. She was rather proud of her current outfit and was looking forward to Geralt’s begrudging nod of approval. While spring was well and truly underway, the winter chill still lingered at night, so she had decided to go with layers. She wore a purple t-shirt under blue coveralls dotted with pink flowers. Over this, she added her yellow cropped puffer. Slung over her shoulder was her battle uke, with its collection of dents and scratches from almost two months of trailing after Ciri and Geralt. Pink pads covered her knees and elbows, with fingerless padded gloves in her pockets (she was starting to become a regular at the local roller derby supply shop). There were purple band-aids across her nose and cheeks from the last time she went out patrolling with Geralt. But this woman thought a schnauzer was a good dog breed, and that the ‘talk to the manager’ hair cut was a good look, so could she really judge?

When Geralt finally arrived, Jaskier was surprised to find her not on her trusty motorcycle, but behind the wheel of an ancient-looking, chevy pickup truck. Despite its evident age, it seemed well cared for, and Geralt easily maneuvered it into the small spot by Jaskier’s front step. Geralt got out and came around the truck to lean against the passenger side, arms casually crossed. She was wearing her usual get-up of modern and medieval weaponry, though she had exchanged her usual silver-studded breastplate for a deep brown leather jerkin, with panels of tight chain mail, under a black jean jacket.

“Who's this?” called Jaskier brightly, gesturing at the truck.

“Roachie,” said Geralt, utterly straight-faced.

“Oh my gods you are ridiculous,” declared Jaskier, walking over to nestle against Geralt’s side.

“Be honest with me. You brought her because you’ve been using Roach too often and didn’t want Roachie to feel jealous.”

Geralt’s mouth twitched, which was most definitely a yes. 

Jaskier cackled and went up on her tiptoes for a kiss. It was slow and sweet. Something soft for her Witcher, who was all too often forced to be stoic and sharp. Jaskier ran a hand over Geralt’s face, gently tracing the scar that cut a faint line down her pale cheek. Geralt had told her the story of that scar the second night she stayed over at Jaskier’s. With Ciri staying at Yen’s, they were able to forego the couch and nestle close on Jaskier’s pitifully small single bed. Geralt murmured the tale of her encounter with the cockatrice deep in the bowels of the city’s maze of subway tunnels. Jaskier could picture her, jaw clenched against the pain, sword wet with blood, as she stood over the feathered, scaled heap in the deep dark. It was one of her first nights hunting alone. Witchers aged slower than humans, Geralt explained, time stretching out before them until something brought their long lives to an abrupt end. Geralt was only a few years older than Jaskier, but her years thus far had been filled with silver and steel. Jaskier tried not to think about the years Geralt would have after her or the things that could cut that time short. Mostly she succeeded. It was much easier to dwell on the immediate stresses of the stubborn ballads and horrific creatures before her than contemplate the forbidding future. But Jaskier was twenty-five and in love. When she wasn’t morbidly thinking about her own death, she was half-convinced she would live forever.

Geralt pulled open the passenger side door for her and Jaskier clambered in. Like the outside, the interior of the truck showed both signs its age and the dutiful maintenance. The leather bench was soft and smooth, with fresh rubber mats set over the thin floor carpeting. The old radio had been carefully extracted and replaced with a new one, though it was clear from its tape deck that this replacement was also getting on in years. Jaskier experimentally jabbed away at the buttons.

“Where’s Ciri?” she asked idly, still distracted with attempting to get the radio to work.

“Sleeping over at my Dad’s,” said Geralt.

The radio suddenly jolted to life, ringing with a tune she immediately recognized as one of the songs she uploaded on YouTube last year. Jaskier froze for a moment in shock, just listening. Then she turned to Geralt, eyes threatening to overflow with happy tears.

“Ciri helped me get the songs downloaded from your channel, and I showed her how to record onto a cassette tape.”

She grinned through her tears. “You should have told me. I’ll have to make you a mixtape.” 

Keeping one eye on the road, Geralt turned to offer Jaskier one of her rare broad smiles, the one that made Jaskier’s heart beat faster in her chest.

“Thank you Geralt. Seriously. I know I say everything you do is the heights of romance, but this…this…Gosh this is just too wonderful.”

“I love your songs. I wanted to be able to listen to them while I drive.”

There was one long bench instead of individual seats, so Jaskier was free to slide right over to Geralt, leaning into the Witcher. She would have clambered onto Geralt’s lap if she hadn’t been driving. Geralt turned up the knob, and for the rest of the short ride they sat close, listening to Jaskier’s songs. Jaskier usually found it a bit cringy to hear her past work, but there was something special about hearing Geralt humming along to the chorus, having this physical reminder that she was capable of creating music that made someone feel something. Music that someone loved enough to go through the effort of recording it onto cassette.

When they reached the parking spot, beside the stupid sign with the cryptic announcement that it was set aside for “additional institutional services” Jaskier declared, as she always did when she saw the sign, that it was an uninspired name. Geralt let out a sigh of fond exasperation and got out of the cab, Jaskier sliding out behind her. Jaskier rested her elbows on the side of the truck bed, watching while Geralt pulled out her swords and the rest of her armour, strapping everything into place with practiced ease. Once she was done, they walked together over to the alley between the towering city council building and a massive bank. In that alley, one found something that looked like a large electrical box fixed to the side of the brick walls. The box appeared normal until Geralt opened it with the silver skeleton key she kept strung on the chain with her medallion. Rather than the expected mess of breakers and wires, the box was rather simply outfitted, with a large clip like one from a clipboard mounted at the top. At the bottom was a row of small locked boxes. Geralt had explained that these were for small body parts and samples, when such things were requested. A single piece of lined paper was currently clipped into place, fluttering slightly in the night breeze. Geralt carefully extracted it and read it over. This done, she lit the paper on fire, and it quickly crumbled into ash. Geralt locked the door of the posting box again, and they set off back to the light of the streetlights. Geralt had clarified the purpose of this set up when Jaskier, upon first seeing it in action, declared that while she appreciated the dramatics, it all seemed particularly archaic when she knew that Geralt had a perfectly good flip phone. It was all apparently to avoid an electronic paper trail, which in this day and age was even more insidious then pen and paper. Jaskier was fairly certain that tradition also had a heavy hand in all of this. But regardless burning written instructions on the monster you were contracted to hunt down was pretty bad-ass. Burn after reading and all that.

It was the job of an unnamed city employee to scour the internet for word of creature ‘sightings’, compiling these with more reliable information and contracts provided by those citizens in the know. Jaskier had gotten her first glimpse into this modern monster-hunting system shortly after the first night, when she had taken to the internet to find any and all references to barghests. She had been two pages into an online forum whose graphics had not been updated in any meaningful way since 2005 when she found the first reference to glowing, wolf like creatures in the city. The post, made by user CatLovr94, was dated two days before her late-night run in with Ciri and Geralt. Two other users responded to this post, citing similar encounters. One even attached an incredibly blurry photo of a fiery, green streak. For the uninitiated, this photo could merely be someone messing around with a coloured flashlight and a cellphone with a shitty flash. But Jaskier was initiated. Very much so. The photographer was lucky they had lived to tell the tale to the various other anonymous weirdos haunting these message boards.

It was a 'safe' system, one that kept the secret of this magical underworld strictly under the purview of those that needed to know. But it also meant that few knew of the witchers prowling the night, keeping them safe, hunting down the dangerous cryptoids they made shitposts on the internet about. Every time Jaskier saw that little box, she was filled with a renewed passion to sing these tales. To declare the stories untold. To elevate these witchers to heroes. 

The contract that night, Geralt explained as they left the alley, was for a so-called “devil” that one online source blamed for a recent series of shop break ins. Geralt sounded highly skeptical. “Probably just someone in a mask,” she said, annoyance clear on her face. The posting provided a rough estimate of where the devil had been spotted but was otherwise sparse on details. It was close, so they set off on foot.

As they walked, Jaskier chattered away, as one does when following one’s Witcher. Geralt had been right, this was exactly what she needed. They hadn’t encountered anything yet and already she could feel herself getting closer to finally pinning down that elusive song.

They had just turned a corner when Geralt hissed sharply, rubbing her head. “Something hit me,” she said, her silver sword sliding out of its sheath with a slick metallic sound.

“What was that?” demanded Jaskier, looking around. Her eyes caught on something shining in the beam cast by the streetlights. She peered closer. It seemed to be horns, obsidian black and smooth, reflecting the light, emerging behind a battered dumpster.

“Oh my gosh. Geralt! The devil, it’s over there!” said Jaskier, pointing.

Jaskier didn’t see it coming.

One second she was spreading her arms wide, preparing to expound the possibilities of the confrontation with this creature. Then. A sharp blow. An explosion of pain. Geralt’s shout. And everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to split this into two because this chapter was becoming overly long and I had only just reached the first part of my outline. More world-building, more taking enormous liberties with canon, and more overly detailed descriptions (Geralt's lovely little stone cottage in the country!) to come!
> 
> Jaskier's outfit references (because dressing up J continues to be one of the funniest parts of writing this AU)  
> [yellow puffer](https://www.snupps.com/sherlinanym/item/13008640--yellow-zara-puffer-jacket)  
> [floral coveralls](https://www.instagram.com/p/CGVRpbsh3T-/?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months earlier, pt 2

There were four things Jaskier realized in close succession when she drifted back to herself. The first, and most urgent, was that her head hurt. This was quickly followed by a snarky self-reflection that head injuries that resulted in one being rendered unconscious tended to do that. The second realization came quickly on the heels of the first, when she attempted to move. It was in trying to wiggle that she found she was bound up in thick ropes, her arms held fast to her sides. She reacted to this by gasping, and frantically struggling against her bindings. There was nothing like waking to find yourself tied up to truly kick your panic into gear. In her struggles she repeatedly shoved at something pressed against her back.

“Jaskier! Are you okay? Are you hurt?” It was Geralt, Jaskier realized, voice thick with concern. Geralt was the solid warm force at her back, bound up with her in this mess. Jaskier felt some of her initial panic subside. But not all. She was, after all, still tied up.

“Yes,” she groaned. “I’m okay. Are you okay?”

Geralt grunted a yes. Jaskier could picture her expression. Her hard frown, her sharp eyes narrowed as she examined their surroundings.

Jaskier’s fourth realization was that she was sitting on the floor, legs spread out before her, in a room that might have once been a grand parlour. She could see the lingering echoes of its opulence, but this was largely lost beneath years of neglect and decay. The Persian carpet they had been dumped on was threadbare to the point that it was difficult to make out the original design. Several chairs and tables, shoved to the sides of the room, were covered in layers of grey sheets. The doors of an old wooden cabinet were hanging open, half off their hinges, the contents of the cabinet now spilled in a broken heap before it. Amongst this rubble shone shards of fine china, covered in dainty explosions of colour that formed a beautiful kaleidoscope of destruction. Craning her head, Jaskier followed the peeling, bleached floral wallpaper up to the high ceiling, with its dripping chandelier. This, coupled with the massive dimensions of this crumbling wreck, suggested that this was simply one room in a very large manor house. Jaskier half expected Miss Havisham, in all her moulding wedding finery, to waltz in at any second. 

The wall in front of Jaskier was largely given over to a massive oil painting, overlaid with a thick powder of dust. Through this haze, and numerous slashes ripping through the canvas, Jaskier could just make the posing subject, a man in an elegant waistcoat, a sword at his hip, against a gorgeously rendered wild landscape. His long pale hair was swept back, exposing his fine, elegant features, and his ears, which ended in fine points.

“Uh Geralt. This is the part where we escape,” said Jaskier, eyes stuck on those pointed ears.

Geralt grunted again. Jaskier loved her Witcher dearly, but sometimes she wished Geralt could be just a little more inclined to use her words.

This, of course, is when the subject of the painting walked into view, accompanied by a young woman. A young elf? Both had sharply pointed ears and fine features, though their faces were wan, and deep circles lined their eyes. They were both dressed in outfits, that like the room, had once been elegant and fine, but now were reduced to tatters. The man looked no older than his painting, and the painting didn’t seem to be a modern reconstruction, simply judging by the amount of dust and grime that had been allowed to collect on its surface. This meant, Jaskier thought, head spinning, that this man—this elf—was very old indeed. Eyeing the two elves, Jaskier was thrust forcefully back to those four months in seventh grade when she had watched all three _Lord of the Rings_ films in quick succession and fallen hard for Legolas (her obsession with Aragorn started when she re-watched the films at sixteen, and they both lingered in her subconscious until she came across a certain rugged, silver-haired monster hunter outside a McDonalds at 3 am). These recollections were abruptly interrupted when the woman suddenly kicked Jaskier in the stomach.

“Hey! Fuck!” cried Jaskier.

Geralt growled, the woman quickly kicked Geralt as well, before launching into a fury of quick blows to Geralt’s face. The man from the painting said something in a language Jaskier couldn’t understand, marching beyond Jaskier to stand before Geralt.

“English,” grunted Geralt. “My Elder is rusty.”

Jaskier, grimacing through the pain, noticed the floral strap slung over the woman’s shoulder.

“Hey! Oi! That’s my uke! Give it back! Geralt, quick, do your witchering!”

“Jaskier,” hissed Geralt, voice tight. It was a tone that suggested that there was much more at play here than Jaskier knew. But Jaskier couldn’t concentrate on that, because this horrible woman had taken her ukulele out of its case, and was now holding it in a very concerning way.

“No! Please! Not my uke—” pleaded Jaskier.

The woman smirked and kicked Jaskier again. Jaskier couldn’t keep the cry of pain from escaping. Everything hurt, and her heart was a frantic animal in her chest. She was well and truly scared now.

“Leave her alone!” shouted Geralt, furiously. “She’s just a human!”

“Just a human?” snapped the man, and then there was the sharp sound of his fist colliding with Geralt’s face.

“Hey!” cried Jaskier, struggling against her bindings. “You monsters, leave her alone!”

“Us. The monsters?” said the woman, sneering. Meeting Jaskier’s eyes, she raised her hands far above her head and brought the ukulele to the ground, shattering it with a discordant twang of the strings. She stepped forward, grinding the broken bits of the uke beneath her heel, leering above Jaskier, who was biting her tongue to prevent a torrent of curses from spilling out. “We are not the ones who tore up the wild and forced us from our homes. Who hunted us down and left us to this hellhole. Who corrupted chaos.” She stormed around Jaskier, kneeling down before Geralt. “The only _monsters_ I see here are you.”

Geralt suddenly lurched forward and headbutted the woman. She stumbled backwards and fell, clutching her bleeding nose.

Jaskier cackled. That is what she got for breaking Jaskier’s beloved uke.

The woman continued to clutch her nose and began desperately coughing. Jaskier triumphant smirk wavered as the hacking fit continued. The elf man crouched down beside her, resting a hand on her back.

“Wait. What’s wrong with her?” Jaskier cried.

The devil from the alley hurried into the room, cloven feet ringing loudly on the wooden floors. Two shining black horns rose from his tangled mess of curls, his upper half human and wearing a battered oilskin jacket, his lower half that of a goat. In his hands he clutched a plastic bag with a logo with a pharmacy logo imprinted on its side. He knelt down beside the woman, extracting a collection of pill bottles, and an inhaler, which she quickly grabbed and took a deep puff.

“She’s sick,” said the devil, which looked more like the satyrs from her books on Greek mythology now that Jaskier could see him in the light.

“This is Toruviel and Filavandrel, King of the Elves.” He turned to the elves. “I only brought them back because you promised they would not be hurt.”

“They slaughtered us and destroyed our wilds. We put on false glamours, we struggled to survive in their shadows. But for what? This shithole?” spat Tourviel. “What’s two more humans when countless elves are dead?”

“One human,” said Geralt. “And you can let her go.”

Jaskier’s breath caught in her throat.

“If we let her go the humans will hear of this, they will know that we are behind the thefts. They will attack,” said Filavandrel, shaking his head sharply. “The _humans_ ,” he spat the word, “spread like fire, their concrete wasteland ploughing over our lands, obliterating our home. They took us, and made us objects of curiosity, things to be slaughtered and sold. _Pets_. They built their towers on the bones of our dead. They have taken and taken until all that we have left is this wreck, created in their image, and the pitiful lands it rests on.”

Jaskier realized that until that moment she had always thought of creatures like ghouls and barghests as invaders, creeping in to wreak havoc in her city. But it was the city, the city she loved so dearly, that was the evil here. Humans were the forces of destruction. Stealing, corrupting and taking. Killing.

“Then leave,” said Geralt. “Go somewhere else. Or adapt to these new futures.”

“Adapt like you have Witcher?” spat Filavandrel. “Some of my people have managed to twist themselves to meet the demands of the humans. But at what cost? Humans will always fear and abhor difference. No. That is not possible.”

“I have learned to live with humans. So that I may live,” said Geralt, and her words cut through Jaskier.

“Please, my king,” cried Tourviel, unsteadily getting to her feet. “There are those of us ready to fight. We will take back our lands. We will fight for a future we will create. We will tear down their concrete towers. We show them the meaning of fear.”

“It will not be the honourable fight of glory that you imagine,” said Geralt. “There will be bloodshed on sides, and you will die. Kill me if you must, but know that you will soon follow me.” 

Jaskier couldn’t keep the choked cry from escaping her lips, fear rattling inside her.

Filavandrel drew his sword with a sickening metallic sound.

The devil, the sylvan, whatever that horned thing was called, lurched forward. “Wait! The Witcher could have killed me. She didn’t. She’s different!”

“If you must kill me. I am ready,” said Geralt, ignoring Jaskier’s frantic sounds of protest, “but the Sylvan’s right. Don’t call me human. We are both creatures of myth, in a world that decries our existence. My death will not bring back your dead, or restore your wilds.”

\---

It was only after they were led through the haunted halls of the old manor, down the winding gravel path and deposited at the front gate, that Geralt and Jaskier reached for each other. They embraced with a desperate urgency, murmuring strings of words that were lost in their need to be close. To reassure themselves that the other was still there. They stayed that way until the embrace pressed too tightly on her bruises, and Jaskier gave a soft cry of pain. Geralt immediately pulled away, mindful of the fine lute strung over Jaskier’s back.

“Kill me,” said Jaskier, pitching her voice lower, echoing Geralt’s earlier words. She half-heartedly slammed her fist into Geralt’s shoulder. “Don’t you fucking dare do that again.”

Geralt let out a choked laugh. She nodded, though her eyes were distant. Taking Jaskier’s hand in her own, she led them away from the manor house, and its sprawling grounds. Looking back, Jaskier took in the manor. Ivy crept across its surface, tearing at its crumbling brick, slowly returning it to the wild. But still it remained, a glaring mark of humanity’s ravenousness, forcefully inserting itself onto the land. There was a history of pain here, of a people trapped and exiled amongst the bones of their oppressors. But they had also attacked her and Geralt, attempted to kill them, and smashed her ukulele. So Jaskier’s empathy only went so far.

They walked together in silence, until they left the rows of large houses and patches of green behind, making their way back to more familiar ground. Jaskier felt herself breathing a bit easier once her feet were solidly back on cracked concrete and cobblestones. Finally, Jaskier couldn’t hold herself back any longer. She let go of Geralt’s hand, so she could stroke both hands reverently over the smooth surface of the lute. It was the most beautiful instrument she had ever held. She hadn’t believed it when the elves let the Sylvan cut them lose, but her astonishment soared to new heights when Tourviel slipped away, only to return bearing this lute which she offered to Jaskier. It almost made the whole ordeal worth it. A couple of bruises and cuts were nothing compared to the breathtaking music that emerged when she experimentally plucked away at one shining string. Her mind spun with ideas. That tune, that terrible, impossible, wonderful tune that had hovered just beyond her reach for so long, suddenly crystallized before her. This was the adventure she would set down, the story of this complex underworld of magical beings, persisting despite the efforts of humans. She would tell the story of her brave, stubborn, overlooked Witcher. All with a bit of tweaking of course. A nice strong tale of heroes and villains, something easy for the public to seize on to. But the spirit of the story would be there, and that was all that mattered.

 _“She’s a friend of humanity, so give her the rest--_ Do you think I should refer to you as a man? Further occlude the myth of the mysterious Witcher?”

Geralt looked to her, frowning. The cuts on her face had stopped bleeding, the crusting rusty red a stark contrast against her pale skin.

“What are you going on about?”

“It’s for the song! The ballad I’m going to write of today.”

Geralt frowned, golden eyes lingering on the cut Jaskier felt stinging on her own brow.

“I shouldn’t have brought you.”

Jaskier stopped, grabbing Geralt’s arm to stop her too. “Hey-hey wait. You don’t make me go anywhere.”

“It’s dangerous. This world is no place for someone like you. You could have been killed.”

“You aren’t getting rid of me that easily! There are songs here and I am going to write them,” said Jaskier jovially.

Geralt looked away, a deep frown carved across her sharp face. Jaskier’s fingers stuttered over the lute strings.

“Geralt? Is this about what happened back there—”

“I’m not a human. I’m not like you,” said Geralt, still not meeting Jaskier’s eyes.

“Do you,” Jaskier took a deep breath. This question almost hurt as much as the bruises spreading down her sides. “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” said Geralt immediately.

“Geralt,” whispered Jaskier, reaching out and gently turning Geralt’s face back to her. “I’ll keep following you to the edge of the world.”

Geralt pressed her face against Jaskier’s hand, closing her eyes and sighing deeply. When she opened them again, she offered Jaskier a small smile. “Let’s go home.”

For the two months Jaskier had followed Geralt and Ciri, ‘home’ had meant Jaskier’s apartment. It was close and convenient. They would return from the hunt, patch up their various minor wounds, and collapse onto the couch or bed (depending on whether Ciri was with them), to snatch a couple of hours of sleep. Once Geralt and Ciri woke up, they would take Roach back to the country. When it was just Geralt, sometimes she would linger, nursing a cup of coffee in bed and making dry remarks about the state of Jaskier’s apartment.

There was something about how Geralt said _home_ this time that suggested more than the apartment. Jaskier’s suspicions were confirmed when they piled back into Roachie and Geralt pulled left, onto the road that led out of the city proper. Jaskier said nothing, only pressed close, carefully holding the precious lute in her lap.

In their time together, Jaskier had only heard about Geralt and Ciri’s cottage in the country, nestled at the edge of land that had been in the family for hundreds of years. It was a short walk through the fields to Kaer Morhen, the old massive family seat where Geralt’s father lived. Geralt’s brothers would stay at Kaer Morhen when they visited, and Jaskier knew that Vasemir also kept rooms for Geralt and Ciri, who spent much of their time there. But the little stone cottage, Rivia, was home.

Jaskier had wanted to visit the cottage for quite some time. As much as she could be a little shit, she had also known not to push this. Rivia was Geralt and Ciri’s space, she didn’t want to encroach on that uninvited. She and Geralt had been taking things relatively slowly since that first run in. That first kiss after a night of adrenaline and fear had been a spark, a deliberate declaration of a beginning. But then came the hard part. The part where they slowly learned to fit together, an ever evolving process, as they discovered more of each other. Jaskier adored learning more, even when it was messy and uncomfortable, like all that was revealed in this encounter with the elves, for all these parts made up the woman that she loved. It was clear that they were different, but also that they fit together in spite of, or perhaps precisely because of, their differences. Jaskier knew that she was loud and flamboyant in her love, while Geralt’s actions spoke much louder than words. But Geralt seemed to light up with her words and Jaskier’s persistence, and Jaskier had long known she had a competency kink (which was only further cemented when she had a chance to properly watch Geralt fight, because _damn_ ).

The drive to the cottage took about forty-five minutes without traffic. Once they left the city behind, the bright headlights of Roachie illuminated their way home, as the wide highway gave way to much smaller roads, through rolling fields, whose outlines were just visible in the dark.

Jaskier grumbled about not getting a chance to see Rivia properly in the dark when they finally pulled up, and Geralt laughed. The little stone cottage that she could see was so lovely it looked like something out of a storybook. Jaskier followed Geralt inside and turned down the offer of a drink. Exhaustion from the last couple of days of writing, and this entire encounter with the elves, was starting to seriously catch up with her. Geralt nodded and led her up the wooden stairs to the small landing, surrounded by three doors. One was clearly Ciri’s, covered in a collage of rippings from magazines of women wearing fierce expressions and modern fashion’s take on medieval armour. The other was hanging half open, revealing the edge of a clawfoot tub. Geralt smiled, and led Jaskier into her bedroom. It was small, largely given over to a bed covered in a fluffy duvet, and a dresser, with several swords hanging from holders on the walls. Jaskier grinned. They moved around each other as if this was a dance they had performed a thousand times, stripping off their dirty clothing and pulling on pyjamas. Jaskier made do with an old large shirt of Geralt’s that fell almost to her knees. Crimson spread across Geralt’s pale cheeks when she saw Jaskier, and she said something that largely amounted to “you look good.” Jaskier snorted.

They trooped off into the bathroom, cleaning their cuts and brushing their teeth, Jaskier using a new toothbrush Geralt dug out from under the sink. This completed, they settled into the delightfully soft bed, and Geralt switched off the light. 

For a moment they lay there in the dark, quiet and still. Jaskier turned to face Geralt, though she couldn’t make her out her face in the dark.

“I love you. Not despite, but because, of all that you are,” she whispered. “I want to make sure you know that. I know I’m just human—”

Jaskier found herself encircled by the arms of her Witcher.

Geralt hummed softly.

That was all the answer Jaskier needed.

She nestled closer.

\---

Jaskier woke up with the soft light of the sun filtering through the closed blinds. She yawned and stretched out, grumbling happily. Geralt’s side of the bed was empty, but this was not surprising. Geralt was much more inclined to rise with the sun. What was surprising was that Geralt had not also forced Jaskier out of bed. Jaskier smiled and decided this was going to be a properly lazy morning.

The sounds of pounding steps and a slamming door suddenly echoed through the quiet cottage.

“Hello!! I’m home!” shouted Ciri, followed by the sounds of shoes being thrown to the floor.

Jaskier sighed. So much for her long lie in.

When Jaskier stumbled downstairs, it was wearing a pair of Geralt’s sweat pants cinched tightly around the waist and a massive hoodie with the faded logo of a wolf across the front.

“Hey Ciri,” she said, collapsing down into a chair at the old wooden table. The kitchen was, as she had expected, utterly charming and impossibly cozy. A collection of herbs were hanging from the low rafters in the corner, and the windows offered views of the sprawling green landscape. 

“Hey!” said Ciri brightly, looking up from where she was currently occupied putting together a breakfast smoothie. Her hair was pulled back into a messy braid that was rapidly falling apart, and she was wearing sweaty workout clothes streaked with dirt.

“Did you just come back from training?” Jaskier asked, making desperate eyes at the coffee pot until Ciri took pity on her and pushed the pot and a mug to Jaskier with a smirk.

“Yeah. Uncle Lambert’s in town, so he’s been running me through the obstacle course. I’m gonna go back in a bit for sword practice.”

Jaskier nodded, pouring herself a generous helping of coffee and bringing it to her lips with a happy sigh.

“Also Lambert had a message for you,” said Ciri, finishing off her smoothie with some milk and turning the blender on.

Jaskier rolled her eyes, and waited for the blender to finish before asking “what did he say?” She had met Lambert once before downtown on a hunt with Geralt and Ciri. He was a sarcastic shit and she looked forward to the next time they could exchange insults.

“He said to tell you that he says ‘hi fuckface’” said Ciri, grinning.

Jaskier laughed. “Well, you can tell him he has a face like a horse’s arse.” Maybe not her best retort, but she did just wake up.

“So how are you wild little wolf?” asked Jaskier, as Ciri settled down on the chair beside her. Jaskier pulled Ciri closer and set to work twisting her hair into a tight braid that would actually stand up to the rigours of training, while Ciri sipped away at her smoothie.

“I’m okay,” said Ciri. “Training is going well.” She took another sip. “But I am mad because Geralt isn’t letting me have a sleepover with my friend Dara even though I’ve been for asking for forever.”

Jaskier paused in her braiding. “That’s ridiculous. You are in your prime sleepover years.”

“Exactly!” said Ciri.

It was at this moment that Geralt walked in, arms full of a paper bag that smelled heavenly of baked goods.

“Geralt!” said Jaskier, as the Witcher set the bag on the table and leaned down to press a kiss to her cheeks. “Ciri was just telling me about how she has yet to go on a single sleepover.”

Geralt straightened, frowning. “Yes.”

“She’s a pre-teen! This is the time for sleepovers, prank calls, staying up too late eating too much pizza and watching shitty movies. It’s an important passage of life.”

Geralt’s frowned deepened as Jaskier’s description continued.

“C’mon. You owe me. From almost getting me murdered by elves,” Jaskier wheedled, smiling so Geralt would hopefully understand she didn’t fully hold the Witcher accountable for everything that had happened.

For a moment Geralt stood silently, mulling over her words. Then she gave a short nod.

“Yes!” shouted Ciri jumping to her feet. Jaskier cried out and pulled her back down, so she could finish off the braid properly. That got a smirk from Geralt. She distributed the pastries, and they sat and chatted about nothing.

\--

Jaskier thought nothing more of this conversation. She went home and finally got down the song on her precious new lute, and then she was caught up in a flurry of monster hunting and preparing for her debut album and the show. In this mess, Ciri’s sleepover scheme was forgotten almost immediately. Forgotten until three months later, when she was pacing backstage, frantically scrolling through the twitter shitstorm surrounding her opening band, until the metallic crack of a lock being forced open interrupted her panic. Jaskier looked up from her phone to see two familiar faces peering around the door, shocked and guilty expressions staring back up at her.

“Oh fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow my simple outline bullet point: "run-in with the elves (finally gonna force this into my canon)" sprawled into this. I didn't quite realize how difficult it would be until I started trying to adapt this both to my AU world, and to G and J at a different point in their relationship. I'm still not sure I quite got it right, but hopefully this works. I liked the idea of bringing in more on the concept of the complexity of the monstrous.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> three weeks earlier

To truly get the full story, a particular evening three weeks earlier should probably also be taken into account.

Jaskier wasn’t supposed to go out monster hunting that day. She had a full schedule, including several music lessons with students, and a meeting with her manager (a good friend from Oxenfurt who had happily taken Jaskier on her first client). After this meeting, Jaskier was supposed to start in on her hideously long to-do list, which seemed to grow on its own like some sort of semi-sentient creature every time her back was turned. She peered down at the series of post-it notes spreading across her desk, covered in cryptic tasks like “sing better on that track”, “blah insta”, and “0:45 do that thing” and let out a deep groan. Whirling away from her desk, Jaskier called Geralt, who picked up on the second ring.

“I’m coming with you,” said Jaskier immediately, before Geralt could say anything. “I’ll meet you at that place near the thing.”

Then she hung up, grabbed her uke (she was still building up stickers on the new case, but she was properly proud of the one that said “my other uke is an elfin lute”), and ran out the door.

Ten minutes she was glaring at Geralt, hands on her hips.

“What do you mean we have to go to Yen’s first?! Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded.

“Because you didn’t let me say anything?” returned Geralt.

Ciri snickered.

“What, are you scared of her?” taunted Ciri.

“Yes obviously, because I can be somewhat rational sometimes. And Yennefer is objectively a very intimating woman.”

Geralt shrugged and started off, Ciri quick on her heels. Jaskier looked up at the streetlights and groaned. This is not what she had in mind when she decided to play hooky for the evening. With another loud groan for good measure, she started after her Witchers.

“So what is this all about?" Jaskier asked.

Ciri pulled at the strap of the duffel bag slung over her shoulder alongside her sword. “I’m staying over at Yen’s tonight, but it’s also to talk about plans for my summer training!” She grinned, “Finally.”

Geralt tugged gently at Ciri’s ponytail. “You’ll get there soon enough cub.” 

The door was opened by Triss, while the sounds of Yen shouting something indecipherable could be heard in the distance. Potentially a greeting, or possibly an expression of her thoughts on being interrupted. Triss only offered them all her warm smile and gestured them inside.

“Yen said you were coming, she’s just gotten caught up in something.”

It looked as extravagantly glorious inside as ever. It was the kind of tastefully modernized home, all exposed brick and stainless steel, that would be featured on the cover of magazines and in lengthy feature articles, if it wasn’t also the home of two witches and their many magical artifacts.

In the far corner Yennefer was standing over a massive desk, taking quick notes from an ancient looking volume.

“Yen?” asked Geralt.

“Busy,” she responded curtly, not looking up from the book. “And you are early.”

Geralt sighed, resigned, and settled down on the couch, while Ciri kicked off her boots and headed upstairs with her duffel bag. Jaskier contemplated following her, but decided to take pity on her poor Witcher, who looked distinctly stiff and awkward sitting there on that expensive leather couch, as she waited for Yen to deign to speak with her. 

“So what is Yen working on?” asked Jaskier, plopping down on the couch and shifting over so her leg was pressed against Geralt’s. Geralt offered her a small, grateful look.

“Yen has a couple of different projects on the go,” said Triss, settling gracefully onto an armchair. “She’s an independent scholar of sorts.”

“Yen doesn’t like institutions,” added Geralt. 

Triss laughed, a bright, ringing sound. “You could say that.”

“Well that’s cool,” managed Jaskier, at a loss of what to say.

“Can I offer you two refreshments? Water? Tea? Something stronger?” said Triss.

“Don’t bother,” called Yen. She finished her last note with a decisive flourish, and turned towards them, setting her violet gaze on Geralt. “The Witcher and I need to talk, and I need air. Come, Geralt, we’ll talk on the balcony.”

It was only then that she looked to Jaskier. Yen had a way of looking at you that made it clear that you had failed to meet her incredibly low expectations. Jaskier defiantly offered her fakest smile, all the while wondering whether it was too late to sneak away and join Ciri upstairs. 

Yennefer was resplendent in a finely cut lilac pantsuit, while Jaskier was suddenly acutely aware that the wool cardigan she’d pulled over her floral dress was definitely well within the category of ugly sweater. Jaskier adored this sweater, but there was something about Yen’s cool elegance that made it easy to question one’s fashion decisions.

Yennefer swanned by, and Geralt set a steadying hand on Jaskier’s leg before getting up to follow. Yen shut the glass door behind them with a firm click.

Triss shrugged and led Jaskier to the kitchen, setting a kettle out to boil. She spoke as she worked, adding pinches of herbs from a collection of glass jars into a sieve.

“They did love each other once,” Triss said, gesturing with her chin to Yen and Geralt. “I think they still like each other, under it all. They can still respect what the other is,” she continued, as she added the sieve to a clay tea pot. “But they wanted different things.”

Jaskier leaned against the counter and nodded. The kettle began to scream, and Triss filled the tea pot. The smell that rose when the hot water hit the herbs was heavenly.

“What is that?” asked Jaskier, the conversation about Yen and Geralt temporarily abandoned, as she leaned closer.

Triss offered her a smile that refused to reveal any secrets. “Oh, you know. This and that.”

The tea, when it was set before Jaskier in a matching clay mug, tasted even better than it smelled. It warmed her in places she hadn’t realized she felt a chill, helped soothe the dull ache of her shoulders, sore after days and days of leaning over her laptop.

“You and Yen seem happy,” she said, taking another blissful sip.

“We are,” said Triss, cupping her mug in both hands. “We really are.”

They sat for a minute in that silence, both lingering over their teas and their thoughts.

“And you? Are you and Geralt happy?” said Triss suddenly.

Jaskier laughed. “I like to think so. I’m lucky I stumbled into her that night.”

“It can be dangerous though, following a Witcher around?” She seemed to actually genuinely care about Jaskier’s safety, which was really very kind.

Jaskier shrugged. “Eh, what’s life without a little adventure?”

Triss smiled. “What indeed.”

They moved from this to safer, less personal, topics, with Jaskier recounting in detail the latest run-in with a kikimora. Triss was a wonderful audience, gasping appropriately throughout. Triss was in the midst of her own lengthy explanation of her recent woes with a particular strain of wild creeping vine, with Jaskier valiantly attempting to offer the same degree of attentive interest, though struggling as the tale became increasingly dominated by scientific and magical terminology, when Yen and Geralt returned. 

“All set?” asked Triss, breaking off her tale. Yen nodded and grabbed her own mug of tea.

“We should be going,” said Geralt, starting for the door. Jaskier made to follow.

“Wait,” said Yen, voice efficiently slicing through their attempted escape. “Jaskier still hasn’t told us about her concert.”

“My concert,” repeated Jaskier dumbly.

“I was under the impression that you music types liked to talk about these sorts of events.”

“Uh, yes,” said Jaskier, hand fidgeting with her skirt. She was usually all for advertising, and loved tooting her own horn. But she wasn’t sure how she felt about this. On one hand, this was a headlining concert in a pretty good indie venue, and she definitely liked the idea of showing off to Geralt’s ex with her fancy apartment and her pretty suits. On the other hand, Yennefer was absolutely intimidating and powerful and she and Triss were breathtakingly gorgeous, and Jaskier was supposed to be the star of her own show. That would be a little hard if these two witches were in the audience. “The, uh, concert.”

Yen leaned against the counter beside Triss. She seemed to be enjoying this immensely.

“When is it?”

Jaskier rattled off the date and location almost instinctively, before quickly adding that Triss and Yen absolutely did not have to come.

Yen smiled silkily, “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

“Well, you know. No pressure!” said Jaskier.

It was time to make an exit.

Mumbling something about monsters that waited on no Witcher, Jaskier herded Geralt to the door.

“Bye Ciri!” They called.

“Bye!” shouted Ciri, not bothering to come downstairs.

Rolling her eyes at lazy tweens, Geralt nodded to Yen and Triss, and then, finally, Geralt and Jaskier were able to escape into the night.

“Did you tell her about my concert?” demanded Jaskier, when they had left Yen’s house safely behind.

Geralt shrugged apologetically. “We were trying to figure out the schedule for Ciri.”

“Omg I hate you,” cried Jaskier shoving her fist into Geralt’s arm. 

“Hey,” grunted Geralt, rubbing her arm.

“Shut up, that totally didn’t hurt your big Witchery muscles,” said Jaskier, striding forward. Geralt hurried after her, and slung an arm around her shoulders.

“It wouldn’t be that bad. Your concert is still going to be great.”

Jaskier made a face. “Ugh. Why couldn’t your ex be ugly? Or like, not a powerful witch?”

Geralt snorted. “You’re still my favourite.” She pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s cheek. “Even if you aren’t a powerful Witch.”

Jaskier stuck out her tongue in response, as this seemed the only mature thing to do. Her phone chirped, and Jaskier seized on the distraction. It was a text from Chloe, her long suffering manager, reminding her to get through at least part of her to-do list tonight. Jaskier quickly dismissed the notification. She would plead ignorance tomorrow, something about forgetting to plug in her phone. A series of notifications from Instagram further down her lock screen caught her attention, her eyes narrowing in on one dreaded name.

Valdo had just liked one of her posts.

Jaskier glared down at the screen and swiped this one away as well. She really needed to get around to blocking him. Now if only Geralt’s ex was a shitty dirtbag like hers things would be a lot easier. Crossing swords with Yen was almost fun, and Triss was great.

“Jaskier?” called Geralt. Jaskier looked up to find her several paces ahead, looking back with bemusement. “Coming?”

“Yes!” sang Jaskier, shoving her phone away. Enough about Exes and Instagram and stupid tasks. It was time for an adventure. “Lead the way!”

She set off, recklessly confident that this encounter with Yen and the notification from Valdo would have no bearing on the actual concert.

She would be wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the stage is finally set, on to the show 
> 
> Yes, Yen is wearing that pantsuit and top Lorde wore to that concert for lounging around her house, no she will not tell you why.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the pieces fall together

Jaskier had played gigs before. Obviously. But those had always been, at the heart of things, someone else’s show. She was there to make their words shine, to bring contour and depth to the world they were creating. She had played collective shows, where they were all piled up onto the stage in a jumble, knocking elbows and knees, pouring out song into a tapestry of music, bursts of bright yellow, purple and green. Voices emerging from the mass to sing their own lines, darting impossibly high and clear, or sinking low and strong, before folding back within the collective once more. She loved that. There was something glorious about opening your mouth and hearing the strength of all those voices resounding as one. She would always have a soft spot for that feeling. But Jaskier was a star. No, not a star. She was done simply being another piece in someone else’s constellation. It was time for her name to be the one ringing on everyone’s lips. She wasn’t a star. She was the damn moon.

She was ready, impossibly ready, for this beginning to begin. She had been pacing the length of her little flat since she had woken up, at an hour far earlier than usual.

“Darling, dearest, ridiculous Jaskier. Jask. You can’t go to the venue now,” said Pris when Jaskier broke down and called her. “It’s 10 am. No one will be there.”

“But—”

“Jaskier,” sighed Pris. “Watch a movie or something. Call your girlfriend. Practice. Distract yourself.”

“But what about—”

“Jaskier. Swear to me you won’t go until at least 4.”

“What about 3:30?”

“Have I mentioned recently how preposterously annoying you are?” said Pris. 

“Well someone needs to remind me daily or I’ll forget.”

“Essi and I will see you at 5, Jask. Try not to go crazy before then.”

Jaskier filled the next couple of hours practicing, snacking compulsively, and watching strings of random YouTube videos on increasingly inane subjects. She was halfway through a video of a very nice old man explaining how to use an axe to make oak sculptures, regardless of the fact that she had neither an axe, or any real interest in wooden sculpture, when she realized that it was finally close enough to the concert for her to leave. She called a cab, collected her things, hauled them down the stairs in several trips, and waited eagerly on her front step for the ten minutes it took the car to arrive.

Then she was bouncing around the beautiful venue, head tipped back to take it all in. You could see the echoes of its past life as a proper dramatic theatre in the elaborate murals on the ceiling, the old brick, and the stucco detail around the corners of the stage. The seats had been ripped up at some point, a long bar added to stretch the length of one side of the room. The main flooring was shiny and new, just a little sticky, replaced as part of the renovation that also updated the bathrooms three years ago. But the stage was the original, and you felt like you were tapping into something that transcended time when you stood upon those old wooden boards. Jaskier declared this to Cass, the house technician, who only snorted and shook their head. Heaving the last box of merch onto said hallowed wooden boards, they turned and headed back to the sound booth, lifting a hand in response to Jaskier’s shouted thanks.

Jaskier sent a string of texts off to Pris and Essi demanding to know where they were, then a couple to Geralt for good measure. Geralt responded with a thumbs-up emoji, which was entirely for Jaskier’s sake, as Geralt’s distaste for emojis was well established.

Pris called her a few minutes later.

“Don’t hate us! Traffic is shit but we are on our way!” shouted Pris, voice distant, while a GPS rattled off a string of instructions in the background.

“Jaskier,” said Essi suddenly, voice clearer. She must be the one holding the cell. “You need to check twitter right now.”

“Wait, what-”

“It’s too hard to explain,” shouted Pris. “Just look at it.”

“It’s gonna be fine though Jask. We’ll be there soon and then we’ll figure something out,” added Essi. For once Jaskier was at a loss for words.

With a sinking feeling, Jaskier ended the call and pulled up twitter.

After far too much searching, she had finally pinned down an opening band two months before. It was a group started by one of her former music students, which was enough to make anyone feel old. Sinking Sorrows played something that could tangentially be called folk, and they had their own dedicated pack of fans in the city which nicely intersected with her own target audience. And, she reminded herself, she was the one who had first taught Harry how to hold a guitar, and then how to play it. There was a nice bit of symmetry and legacy in having a former student open her first headlining show. It was practically poetic.

These rhapsodic expectations soured as she scrolled, quickly coming across the source of all the trouble. It was a messy series of twitter threads, all knotted into some sort of overblown disaster. It seemed one member of the Sorrows was accusing another of sleeping with their sister? Best friend? (the wording was a little vague here), while another was saying this was all slander designed to destroy the band, or to kick them out of the band (they couldn’t seem to make up their mind, and they kept posting threads that started with 1/45, Which was never a good sign). Harry, for his part, was simply retweeting both sides of the argument, as if giving each equal measure was the best way to stay impartial in all of this. Some fans had started tweeting with #sorrowsforthesorrows which was just fanning the electronic flames.

Jaskier paced as she scrolled, periodically swiping away texts from Essi, which reminded her to ‘breathe’, ‘we’ll sort it out’, ‘not the end of the world opening for yourself.’ Except it was. This was not in her glorious plan of the perfect first concert.

She was halfway through a string of tweets detailing how this was all a reflection of the dark troubles of the modern, spotify age musical generation, which was only serving to send her into more of a spiralling meltdown when she heard the sharp crack.

At least Dara and Ciri had the decency to look properly guilty. 

“Hi, hello. Quick question, what the hell are you doing here?” demanded Jaskier.

“We wanted to see your show, and you said they only let in adults,” Ciri said quickly, Dara nodding seriously behind her.

“So you decided to break in?”

Ciri shrugged. “It wasn’t hard.”

Jaskier shoved her phone in her pocket, so she could pull at her hair with both hands. This was actually quite sweet. And it’s not like Jaskier never snuck into a concert under aged in her day. She would be proud if not for one glaring fact—

“You do know that at least one of your parental figures will here tonight? Right?”

“We’ll hide backstage,” said Dara.

Jaskier had met the youth once before when she went with Geralt to pick Ciri up from a hang out with the other local homeschool kids. Dara and Ciri were playing outside, throwing a rugby ball around, until they spotted Roachie and ran for the truck, where Dara solemnly introduced himself to Jaskier. Dara looked just as serious now, as he stated their plan.

“How did you even get here?” asked Jaskier.

“Remember when you got Geralt to say I could have a sleepover?” said Ciri.

Jaskier sighed, she had a feeling where this was going. “Yes”

“I saved it up, because I wanted to see your show,” she paused, setting her hands on her hips. “I mean, I should be allowed to come anyways, because the songs are about me after all.”

Jaskier waved her hand in an expectant ‘go on’ gesture, she was ready to hear just how deep in shit they all were. The thought of what Yen would do when she found out Jaskier had a hand in getting Ciri into a bar…well one did best not to dwell on such things.

“I told Geralt I was going to Dara’s for a sleepover, and he told his mom that he was sleeping over at my house—”

Jaskier nodded, unable to keep the smile from tugging at her lips. A tried and true classic.

“So we snuck out and took the bus together into the city. And then we came here. Dara figured it would be easier to sneak in if we got here early.” Ciri looked up at Jaskier defiantly, as if she expected Jaskier to pack them both right back to that bus. Dara wasn’t quite as openly obstinate, but there was something in his steady gaze that refused to budge. Jaskier really didn’t have time for this.

“Okay, okay,” said Jaskier. “You’re here, you might as well as stay.” She let out a bark of laughter, shaking her head. “Don’t you dare ever tell Geralt or Yen I said this—but this is actually pretty sweet you guys. Nice display of tween rebellion.”

“See,” said Ciri, elbowing Dara. “I told you she’d be cool with it”

“Yeah, I’m cool with it. But Yen will tear us all apart, which is decidedly uncool.”

Jaskier led Ciri and Dara to her shoebox of a dressing room and shoved them inside. “You can hide here for now.” 

They both nodded.

“Please,” pleaded Jaskier, “Please try not to get caught.”

Ciri smirked, but Dara gravely nodded, which made Jaskier feel somewhat better. Dara would hopefully be able to temper at least some of Ciri’s fiery excitement, and her tendency to throw herself into things. At least for tonight, when Ciri’s actions might directly reflect on Jaskier in the eyes of her rather terrifying mother-figure.

“Jaskier! The fuck are you?” shouted Pris, and Jaskier spun away from her dressing room and the two stowaways. Jaskier was immediately caught up in the flurry of helping Pris and Essi cart around instruments and set things up on stage. Next came sound and lighting checks with Cass. These were mostly complete when the Sinking Sorrows finally slunk in, walking at least six feet from each other. You could practically feel the tension radiating off of them. Only their trademark black sleeveless t-shirts imprinted with glowing skulls identified them as something that might be a collective. The Sorrows got through their checks in one piece, managing to make it backstage before they started hurtling hissed verbal obscenities at each other. Pris offered to throw them all out, while Essi suggested buckets of cold water, but Jaskier waved off both suggestions. She would deal with that in a minute. For now, there another crisis to see to.

The doors had just been opened and audience members were starting to trickle in, gravitating towards the bar. One such audience member had caught Jaskier’s eye, and it was imperative she intercept her before any attempt was made to get backstage.

“Yennefer!” said Jaskier, offering a smile that was definitely too wide. “You came! I didn’t think you were going to come. I told you not to come. What are you doing here?” Her voice squeaked a little too high at the end, and she definitely should have stopped talking before now.

“Jaskier,” said Yen smiling, looking utterly collected in another one of her finely fitted pant-suits. “We couldn’t miss the show we heard so much about.”

Triss, sitting beside Yen at the high table they commandeered, nodded. “It’s going to be great!”

“Right, yes. Ah, just don’t try coming backstage, it’s full of very important musicians doing music things,” Jaskier flashed them one more awkward smile before spinning away. As she retreated she could make out Yen saying “the bard is even weirder than usual” and Triss adding that “stress can do that” with Yen coolly replying “I’m pretty sure she’s just like that” before their voices were lost beneath the sounds of the crowd.

Jaskier ran her hands through her hair (her bangs were probably properly a mess now) and groaned. She needed a drink. Being the cool-aunt/chaotic-partner-in-crime figure was exhausting. She headed for the bar, and found her next heart attack waiting on a stool, elbows propped up against the shiny mahogany surface, a glass of some shit hipster beer in his hand and a sneer on his face. Valdo. Her pox nosed, puss brained, untalented Ex. The man who dated her for three years, used her for her talent, and then couldn’t even be bothered to break up with her person. The subject of her briefly viral video, in which she explained in extensive detail how she would like him to die, which was now being circulated online as part of “good for her” YouTube compilation videos. The sentiments of said video Jaskier still fully agreed with.

Fuck.

Jaskier quickly changed directions, leaving behind dreams of alcohol for now. She squared her shoulders and sauntered through the crowd. She grinned and shouted greetings to friends she recognized, clasping hands and exchanging jests. She quickly weaved around one couple she was fairly certain were not aware that she had slept with both members on separate occasions. Jaskier made her way to the tech booth tucked at the back of the room to check in with Cass.

“Cass—sound tech extraordinaire. I could really do with some good news right now,” she said, leaning against the half walls of the booth.

Cass looked up at Jaskier and shook their head.

“Or…or not,” said Jaskier, slumping.

“It’ll hold for now,” said Cass, gesturing to the board, which was sending off disconcerting sparks. “I sent Bruno out to get some stuff that will hopefully fix it up.”

“And for now?”

“Just try not to do anything too crazy. Now scoot, I have work to do,” said Cass, adjusting their base-ball cap, and turning back to the boards.

“You’re the best Cass!” crowed Jaskier, heading back to the stage.

This was fine. Everything would be fine. As long as she didn’t think about any of it.

\--

And this fiery trash heap is what led to her here. Standing before Geralt, listening to her Witcher cautiously offer one more disaster to pile up on the rest.

“There’s a bruxa here.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

\--

“No, no, no!” shouted Jaskier, flinging her arms about. “This does not get to happen tonight. This is not a Witcher night. This is a Jaskier night!”

“I mean technically the songs—”

Jaskier held up a finger, “don’t you dare finish that fucking sentence.” Jaskier stomped her boots and let out a string of curses, each more colourful than the next. When she finished and looked back up, Geralt looked both shocked and impressed. You would think by now Geralt would know just how extensive Jaskier's vocabulary was. 

“So what now?” demanded Jaskier.

“I only found traces, not the bruxa herself. The chances of us actually fighting are low. It would be difficult in such a crowded space. Humans would get hurt,” her jaw tightened. “Just be careful, okay?”

Jaskier sighed, slumping her shoulders. She nodded. This wasn’t Geralt’s fault. Not this bruxa, or all the other shit that was piling up before Jaskier (though if Geralt hadn’t told Yennefer about the concert, or let Ciri go on the ‘sleepover’…). Geralt pulled out a silver dagger and pressed it into Jaskier’s hand.

“Uh, what am I supposed to do with this?” asked Jaskier. She experimentally waved it around. It felt weird in her hand, heavy and cool. She was half-convinced that she would cut herself if she held it for too long. Geralt set her hands on Jaskier’s, fixing her grip.

“Keep it close, just in case.”

Geralt had left aside her usual armour for the night, and was wearing a loose black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tucked into her high waisted black-grey jeans. Her only ornamentation was a silver chain around her neck. Jaskier wanted to wrap herself in those arms, to pretend for one moment that this night wasn’t falling apart before her eyes.

“Hey, hot stuff!”

A flash of colour spread across Geralt’s pale cheeks.

“Pris, stop tormenting my girlfriend,” snapped Jaskier. Setting the knife down on a convenient ledge, she pulled Geralt closer. “Don’t mind her,” Jaskier said, loud enough for Pris to definitely hear. “She’s just jealous I managed to find a beautiful woman with magnificent muscles while she is utterly and completely single.”

“Night’s still young Jask,” shot back Pris, cackling. “Now if you're done groping Geralt, you should go do something about your opener before they all kill each other.”

Jaskier scrunched up her face but agreed that it was probably a good idea. Murder wasn’t exactly the best way to start one’s musical career.

“You should go find a good spot to stand,” said Jaskier, suddenly remembering the two kids squatting in her dressing room. “You’ll want a spot front and centre to truly get the best experience.”

Geralt nodded, though both Jaskier and Geralt knew there was no way she would be weathering out a show in the middle of it all. Jaskier would look for her wolf on the edges of the crowd, watching everything with those intense golden eyes.

“Luck,” murmured Geralt, pressing a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s lips, “not that you need it.”

“You tease,” laughed Jaskier. “Now go so I can get ready.”

Geralt slipped back through the curtains, and Jaskier gave a big bodily wiggle, bracing herself for the next step.

It turned out to actually be quite cathartic tearing a strip out a bunch of floppy-haired twenty-year-olds. Pris and Essi stood behind her as silent backup, attempting to look intimidating, while Jaskier let the Sorrows know exactly how this night was going to go down.

“You are going to go up there, you are going to perform, and you are going to be happy. This is my night and you are not fucking ruining it.” Jaskier leaned closer. “If you spoil this for me I’ll make sure you never play in this town again.”

Jaskier had her share of connections, but there was no way she had enough influence to pull off this threat. It sounded impressive though, and all three of the Sorrows looked suitably terrified.

“Now go!” she snarled, and they all jumped to comply.

“Remind me not to have anything to do with your wedding,” snorted Pris after the Sorrows had filed by.

“Yeah, you’re just a little terrifying Jaskier,” added Essi.

“Why thank you,” said Jaskier, setting her hands on her hips. They were probably right. It would likely be best for everyone if she and Geralt just eloped.

\--

The Sinking Sorrows went up and played a decent show, pretending for the span of those songs, on threat of Jaskier’s wrath, that they weren’t in the process of breaking apart. While they played Jaskier changed, kicking Ciri and Dara out of her dressing room so she could pull on her dress. It was a hot pink tulle creation inspired by that dress from Killing Eve, whipped up by one of her friends from Oxenfurt who agreed to let Jaskier wear the dress as long as she put out flyers for her costume company at the merch booth. Jaskier added an underskirt for additional flounce and paired the concoction with her favourite stompy monster-hunting boots. She fixed pompom earrings in her ears, gave her hair a good shake and set her sunglasses in to place. Ciri grinned when she saw Jaskier’s outfit, while Dara looked at her, eyes wide, just a little shocked.

Then it was time. Finally. 

She was on and everything was perfect. The music, the crowd, her fingers on the strings. She, Pris and Essi covered the various instruments, with Jaskier always standing front and centre. People pressed close to the edge of the stage and Jaskier sang her heart out. She sang songs of ghouls, and barghests and creatures so ancient and wicked their names were lost to time. For that sublime, fantastic moment, all her troubles faded away.

Until Jaskier looked over to the side of the stage, wiping sweat from her forehead, and saw her. 

Jaskier’s wide, wild grin faltered.

Yen looked grim, her mouth a fierce line. She sharply gestured for Jaskier to come over. 

Jaskier’s heart plunged in her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter I continue my campaign of ruthlessly using canon for my own purposes, relying far too heavily on the wiki, so hopefully this isn't completely out of character for Essi and Priscella (who I now adore).
> 
> Jaskier's [dress](https://www.instagram.com/p/B_sJUbfl6Z9/?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the fight

“Okay, okay,” laughed Jaskier. “Mermaids—are those real? Do you guys have mermaids?”

Geralt chuckled and patiently leaned over to turn the pages of the bestiary spread out on Jaskier’s lap to the correct page. They were sitting, legs tangled, on the plump couch in the living room of Geralt’s little cottage. A fire crackled away in the fireplace against the creeping chill of the late spring evening. It was perhaps a little warm to be lighting a fire, but after Jaskier’s little squeal of excitement over the old stove set in the stone hearth, Geralt had gathered up the kindling without protest.

“Wow,” breathed Jaskier, looking down at the page, covered in beautifully intricate diagrams. She traced her fingers over the image of a woman with the lower half of a fish, glaring out at the reader with flint green eyes. Every once and a while it would hit her again that _this_ , this was all real, and she would feel giddy with the marvellous, impossible truth of it all. It had been months and still there were new truths to uncover, new tales to be told. Jaskier looked up to her Witcher, who was studying her with those intense golden eyes, mouth curved into a lazy smile. Here, amongst the quilts and worn floral cushions, lit by the warm glow of the fire, the tension in Geralt’s shoulders and jaw melted away. She leaned back into the pillows, her silver-white hair gently rumpled. Jaskier wanted to snatch up this moment, hold it in her hands and protect it. To hold this warm feeling close and carry it around with her forever.

“What about vampires? And do they sparkle? This is essential information my thirteen-year-old self absolutely needs to know,” declared Jaskier.

Geralt rolled her eyes. “ _Twilight_ isn’t a reliable source of information.”

“Well, it sounds like someone was team Jacob.”

Geralt shook her head, letting out a small laugh. “Vampires are real, and they don’t sparkle. Their classification is complicated, we use the term to refer to several subspecies of creatures that drink blood.” She reached out and flicked through the book, until Jaskier was peering down at a page labelled ‘bruxa.’ It showed an illustration of a naked woman, mouth opened to reveal rows of sharp, bloody teeth, holding up hands tipped with sharp claws. “Bruxae are one type of higher vampire we find in the city. They can walk in the sun, transform into bats and emit piercing screams. Garlic and crucifixes are useless. The only thing to stop a bruxa is a silver sword.”

“Damn,” chuckled Jaskier. “Can’t believe YA literature has let me down so thoroughly.” After one final look at the snarling bruxa, Jaskier shuddered and closed the book. She carefully set it on the low wooden table, beside their half empty hot chocolate mugs.

She clambered forward, climbing up onto Geralt’s lap. Geralt looked briefly startled before humming happily, settling her hands on Jaskier’s back. 

“hello,” whispered Jaskier.

“hello,” murmured Geralt.

“I think that’s enough terrifying imagery for one evening,” said Jaskier softly, running her fingers through Geralt’s hair.

Geralt hummed her assent and closed the distance between them.

\--

Jaskier stared at Yen’s bleak expression and thought of that warm spring night in the cottage. The night she had wanted to preserve and protect. They had spent hours curled up on the couch, until Geralt half dragged-half carried Jaskier up to bed. Jaskier thought of the elaborate illustration, of the creature leaping forward with ripping claws and snarling teeth. _The only thing that could stop a bruxa was a silver sword_. But swords shattered sometimes. 

Dazed, Jaskier turned back to the audience. They were applauding and shouting, lifting their arms up to her. She could hear them, but it distant and faint, nothing to the rushing in her ears. Her head felt stuffed and heavy, her heart beat too loud, her breath too quick. Pris was at her shoulder suddenly, raising one hand to the audience, the other shifting Jaskier so that she was no longer facing the crowd.

“Jask. What’s wrong?” she hissed.

Jaskier eyes flicked up to Yen’s, meeting that steady, serious violet gaze.

“I-I have to go for a sec. Play something,” she looked at Pris, face twisted in confusion and concern, to Essi, who looked pale and worried. “Please.”

Jaskier had met Pris and Essi at an open mic night at a pub near the Oxenfurt campus in first year, and she loved them both to bits almost instantly. Pris was talented, intelligent and sarcastic, almost as flamboyant as Jaskier, and somehow so much better at having her life together. Essi was quieter but sharply witty when she wanted to be. Her face was always half covered with her blonde curls, and when she sang the whole world stopped to listen. They both gleefully agreed to play on Jaskier’s album, Essi squealing and Pris gathering them all up in a massive hug when Jaskier set the offer before them. Then they had gotten drunk, and outperformed all the other hapless patrons in that karaoke bar. They both knew nothing of Witchers and monsters and magic. But they were perfect friends, the kind that took in a sudden strange request and ran with it.

Essi nodded and Pris squeezed Jaskier’s shoulder. “Go,” she said, “we’ll cover you.”

Jaskier took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She forced a grin onto her face and whirled back to the crowd and the microphone. “We are just going to have a brief interlude while my dear friends play you a song!” This was met with a wall of applause.

With a final nod to Essi and Pris, Jaskier quickly left the stage.

“Time to show you all what real music is!” Jaskier could hear Pris declare, strumming out the opening bars on her guitar.

Yen was waiting, arms crossed and mouth sharp.

“Geralt?” demanded Jaskier, voice brittle.

“She’s fine,” said Yen, and Jaskier felt some of the stabbing in her stomach recede. “For _now_. She needs your help.”

“Yes! What! Where!?”

Yen looked at Jaskier, piercingly appraising. “The bruxa has attacked. Geralt has it cornered in the bathroom but she is concerned the fight will spill out. Triss and I are setting up defences to protect and divert civilians, but we need a distraction. Something loud to direct our spells and mitigate the bruxas sonic attack.”

Jaskier nodded vigorously. A loud distraction. She could do that. She had practically been training her whole life for this moment.

Yen made to move away, but Jaskier reached out a desperate hand, grabbing Yen’s arm. “Will Geralt be okay?”

Yen’s eyes flicked down to Jaskier’s hand and then back to Jaskier’s face. Jaskier quickly let go. “She is a skilled Witcher. She will do her best,” Yen paused for a moment, searching Jaskier’s face. For a moment her gaze seemed to almost soften, and Jaskier could see her concern sneaking through. “We are counting on you bard. Do not let us down.”

Yen slipped into the shadows behind the curtain, and Jaskier was left, heart racing with adrenaline. If anything this had only focused her anxiety, given a face to her fears. But this was something she could confront. Geralt was fine for now, but she was about to duel a creature alone in a shitty bathroom. She needed a distraction and Jaskier was going to give her one. She had the perfect idea, she just needed a little help.

Jaskier found Ciri and Dara on the other side of the stage. While Dara peered out at the stage, head bobbing in time with the music, Ciri was distracted by a member of the Sorrows, who was texting and chewing gum further backstage.

“She’s too old for you kiddo,” snorted Jaskier. Ciri whipped around and blushed.

“What’s happening?” asked Dara, cutting through Ciri’s huffed attempts to explain herself.

Jaskier quickly refocused on the task at hand, opening her mouth to launch into a quick explanation, only to remember at the last second that Dara also knew nothing of this magical underworld. She couldn’t exactly tell him that there was a bruxa. Jaskier still wasn’t quite clear what the rules were on telling non-magical members about all this stuff when it wasn’t wrapped in metaphor and sung on stage. She stood before them, mouth hanging open for a beat, before frantically finding her feet again.

“Br-uh, there has been a change in the plan for the night. I need you to go and check on Cass at the sound booth—” Jaskier was all too aware that the sound booth was at the back of the theatre, near the bathrooms “—and have them project the lyrics on to the projector. You should be able to find them on YouTube.” She told them the song she had in mind, and they both nodded, glints in their eyes. Ciri seemed to catch the words Jaskier was leaving unsaid. Before her eyes, Jaskier could practically see Ciri transform from the rebellious young girl out for an illicit concert to the serious young monster slayer.

“Uh Ciri maybe bring along your duffel bag? You might have something in there that could help Cass…uh with the soundboard?” That made no sense, but Jaskier truly was grasping for straws here. She was certain there was a silver sword stuffed in that duffel. Ciri nodded seriously and hurried away, back to Jaskier’s dressing room to retrieve it.

Dara turned his dark eyes on Jaskier. “I know about her sword.”

Jaskier spurted out a sound that wasn’t so much words as an acoustic representation of her shock.

He looked at her, and something fell away. She saw it then. Magic, something fierce, like standing before an incoming storm, the wind whipping and your heart pounding with the fantastic, furious power of it all. Chaos. She had felt this before, knew this beat in her veins, she realized. She had been bound with her back to Geralt in a decaying manor house, watching her uke being smashed to pieces. Her last encounter with elves was seeped in this feeling, but Jaskier had largely overlooked the thrumming in her blood then in her shock and fury. She was acutely aware of it now, as it abruptly flared before her. Just as suddenly it was gone, as if a switch was thrown. She was left, mouth hanging open, staring at Dara.

He shrugged and said, “Glamour is hard. But it lets me live how I want.” He smiled, a soft, hesitant thing. Jaskier grinned reassuringly in return, and his smile broadened. _More things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy_ , she thought, that familiar giddiness in her chest.

Dara was watching her as if he half expected her to pass out.

“There’s a bruxa, Geralt is fighting it, this song is a distraction,” blurted Jaskier. She was free to say this, she reasoned, now that she knew that Dara was an elf.

Dara frowned and jerked his head in a quick nod. “I’ll watch Ciri’s back.”

Ciri returned moments later, duffel bag thrown over her shoulder. Jaskier pulled them both into her arms, crushing them to the tulle of her skirts. “Stay safe,” she said, somewhat desperately.

They ran off to the sound booth, putting the first stage of Jaskier’s plan into action. She watched those two little soldiers go, far too solemn for their age, thinking distantly that she would have to make sure they got a proper sleepover sometime soon. They vanished into the crowd and Jaskier seized on the next step of her plan. Turning to the Sorrow member Ciri had been swooning over, Jaskier demanded, “Hey, you play drums right?”

\--

From the moment she walked in, presenting her complimentary ticket to the man at the door, the medallion tucked beneath her shirt began shaking and shivering. Geralt had expected this. The venue for Jaskier’s concert was a popular indie theatre in the heart of downtown. These were liminal spaces, echoing with the memory of music and spirits, heady with history and chaos. Here fae with sharp ears and kaleidoscope eyes brushed shoulders with the young, the lonely and the wild, in a chaotic mix of horns, teeth, eyeliner and distressed jeans. Spells scrawled in black sharpie on bathroom walls and secret menus of cocktails that made everything improbably sweeter. Geralt seldom ventured into this in between, there was little work for her swords. The delicate balance she helped maintain largely held itself here. But there were always exceptions.

And so, even though this was simply to be a night of watching and listening to the woman she loved, Geralt still brought along her sword, tucked away in a black duffel bag and a pair of knives in her boots. When Geralt approached the merch table, with the plan of persuading them into storing her bag, she found she didn’t even need to use Axii. The young woman minding the table had taken one look at Geralt and beamed.

“You must be Geralt! I’ve heard so much about you!” she said brightly, adjusting her large glasses and introducing herself as Lyra, a third year law student and friend of Jaskier’s that owed her a favour. She immediately told Geralt to stuff her bag amongst the empty boxes at the back of the booth, before Geralt could even open her mouth to ask. Geralt was used to staring eyes, pointed fingers and insidious glares. Faces that folded into dissecting sneers when they took in her eyes, hair and scars. This easy smile was so unfamiliar, Geralt felt the shock like an ache in her chest. Since Jaskier barrelled into her life, all spark and shine, she had brought with her an ever expanding circle of people that seemed just as happy to welcome Geralt. Geralt had Yen, Ciri, Triss and her brothers, but there was something about a friendly stranger that spread like a warmth inside her, a reminder of all that she had missed before.

Turning away from Lyra and the merch booth, Geralt caught a trace of distinctive coppery sweet smell and her mouth curved into a hard line. Vampires, particularly higher vampires, presented a complicated case for Witchers. Some tempered appetites and lived amongst humans, thriving in the liminal spaces of the city. Others did not.

Pushing her way into the steadily growing crowd, Geralt scanned the room, eyes intent. But in the constant onslaught of sounds and smells, the bruxa seamlessly disappeared within the press of bodies. And even if Geralt was to locate the bruxa, she couldn’t know its intentions. It might simply be here for the music, drink and the sonorous drum of hearts beating in time. Or not. There was no way to know, and this made Geralt’s frown deepen.

She took the steps she could take.

Waved backstage by Jaskier’s manager, she offered Jaskier a warning and a knife. She held her anxious bard to her chest and wished her luck, knowing full well that Jaskier needed no luck. She was already brilliant.

Back in the crowd, Geralt spotted Yen and Triss at a little table at the edge of the audience, and brought them the news of the bruxa. Both nodded seriously. Triss offered Geralt a seat at their table, and she lingered there through the opening band, which Jaskier had clearly managed to bully into submission. They were okay, though not quite to her taste. Yen and Triss chatted throughout the Sorrows set, unabashedly judging their floppy hair and unfortunate matching outfits. Geralt interjected her own comments from time to time, armed with additional information from Jaskier’s many pre-show rants.

Then Jaskier burst onto the stage and all thoughts of the Sorrows vanished. There was only Jaskier, beaming and flouncing around the stage in her beloved pink tulle dress. The crowd cheered, and Geralt felt like her heart was going to burst with pride.

Geralt had heard Jaskier sing—it was practically an occupational hazard of being around Jaskier—but there was something special about seeing her up there on the stage. Seeing her being adored.

“Are you crying?” teased Yen, jabbing her elbow into Geralt’s side. Geralt shook her head and quickly rubbed the tears from her eyes.

Jaskier was half through her set when Geralt smelled it. The sharp, overwhelming stench of too much blood being spilled. She was on her feet in an instant.

“The bruxa,” she said, to Yen’s unasked question.

“We’ll manage the crowd. You go.”

Geralt jerked her head in a sharp nod and was off. Her relationship with Yen might be tempestuous, but she trusted her. She and Triss would ensure the safety of the audience. This was one less thing for Geralt to worry about.

Geralt retrieved her sword, thinking bitterly that she should have called for backup as soon as her medallion started shivering on her chest. But her brothers had left early that morning, off to fill an urgent contract in a neighbouring city, Lambert grumbling all the way. A particularly vicious group of wraiths had caught numerous citizens in their gruesome spell, and it was crucial the wraiths were stopped before they were danced to death. Vasemir was closer, but he was older than he liked to admit, and Geralt preferred to keep him out of the field. She shook her head sharply. These were useless, wishful thoughts. She hadn’t known what was going to happen. Now she did. The pieces had fallen and she must act accordingly.

The stench was stronger as she approached the bathrooms, assaulting her senses. Two bodies at least, blood left to senselessly spill. Geralt adjusted her grip, downed a potion, and pushed the door to the women’s bathroom open.

Two bodies lay crumpled on the dirty, tile floor, while the bruxa cradled a third in her arms, mouth buried in the young man’s throat. She snapped to attention when Geralt shoved her way inside, blood dripping down her chin, mouth pulling back into wide sneer. The bruxa appeared as a young woman, her thick black hair cut into short fashionable bob with bangs. She was half between her human and vampiric form, her skin uncannily pale, the strap of her black silk dress half slipping off one shoulder. Her teeth were jagged daggers, her hands ending in sharp talons that pierced the skin of the unconscious man in her arms. Seeing Geralt, she dumped the man, stepping over his limp body. Geralt could just make out three faint pulses, desperately clinging to life. They were still alive then. For now.

“Finally,” scoffed the bruxa. “I wondered how much damage I would have to do to catch your attention.” She flicked one talon, brushing back an errant strand of hair. “I thought I would go after that pretty little singer next. She looks positive delectable. And so _alive_.” She hummed, a tune long lost to history.

Geralt growled, low and guttural. Fury coursed through her.

“What the fuck are you doing here,” snarled Geralt.

“I figured it was time I saw the eponymous Witcher in action. Time that I killed you.”

The bruxa launched herself at Geralt, screeching. Geralt threw up quen, and the bruxa talons and screech rammed against her shield, slamming Geralt into the wall. Geralt growled and raised her sword, jaw clenched, teeth bared.

The bruxa opened her mouth to scream again, when the loud electric sounds of a keyboard and drums suddenly burst to life, accompanied by roaring shouts and wild applause.

“ _I had a dream or was it real?_ ” exploded Jaskier’s voice, her mic dialled up to ring loud and true in the bathroom, bouncing off the tiled graffitied walls. Geralt mouth’s curved into a feral grin.

_“We crossed the line and it was on”_

Howling, Geralt surged forward.

_“We crossed the line, it was on this time”_

\--

Yen stared up at Jaskier and blinked away her disbelief. She had asked for a distraction and the bard had definitely delivered. Yen had to respect this efficiency, the way Jaskier immediately launched into a song that sent the collected crowd into wild delighted screams, rushing closer to the stage. She had even managed to somehow have the lyrics projected onto the screen above the stage, which was hanging unused before. It was some kind of shitty YouTube fan video, and it was slightly out of time with Jaskier, but her crowd seized on the chance to sing along, booming loud, hands clapping in time with the beat. Jaskier had waved her hands at the poor person handling the sound until they had turned up the speakers to almost ear-splitting levels. Yen could feel the beat in her chest, the air seemed to hum with it.

_“I want some satisfaction, take me to the stars”_

She seized on this effervescent, overwhelming sound and twisted her spells around it. Distraction, protection, anything she could think of that would keep the crowd of humans away from the back of the room. Triss wove in spells of her own that buoyed up the energy until it reached truly euphoric levels. They were not Witchers, and had no true defence against a bruxa’s sonic attack. But, standing before this cheering crowd, wrapped up in this song, Yen had to admit this was working much better than she could have ever imagined.

_“I wanna cut through the clouds, break the ceiling”_

All eyes were fixed on the stage, and Jaskier seemed to adore every second. While she could feel their spells weaving through the air, directing the crowd, it was clear that the allure of the bard wasn’t simply Yen and Triss’ directed chaos. This was Jaskier. She was a force on to herself on that stage, bouncing to the beat of the song, arms spread wide.

_“I wanna cut to the feeling, oh yeah”_

\--

The sudden burst of pop music seemed to temporarily unbalance the bruxa and Geralt immediately pressed her advantage. She swung fast, fueled by her potions, but the bruxa was impossibly faster. Ducking and weaving, sliding under her blade.

She made to screech again. Geralt flung up quen, but Jaskier’s voice was already so overwhelming she doubted she would even hear it.

_“I wanna cut to the feeling, oh yeah”_

Geralt turned, slicing. The bruxa lashed with her ripping claws, tearing into Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt shoved her off, whirling, sword blazing. They danced around each other, leashing out, feet slipping on the bloody tile floor. Geralt was panting, and her shoulder was screaming but Jaskier’s voice was in her ears, egging her on. Singing for her. Cut to the feeling.

Geralt swung her sword at the bruxa’s head. She dashed back snarling. Geralt used the broken beat to snatch up the silver knife in her boot, flinging it at the bruxa. It barely scratched the creature but it was enough. The flinch, the wrong footed step Geralt needed. Her sword sliced through the bruxa’s arm, and the creature howled. Geralt’s quen was shaky and too late, and the sound swept over her. Geralt growled, unsteady. But Jaskier’s voice was there, blasting through the bruxa’s screams.

_“I want it all or nothing  
_

_No more in-between, now give your  
_

_Everything to me, let's get real baby_

_A chemical reaction, take me in your arms_

_And make me, aahhhh”_

Jaskier’s voice soared and Geralt found her feet. She slammed the bruxa to the wall, sword tip at the creature’s heart.

“last chance,” she growled.

“Pretty thing that singer,” snarled the bruxa, laughing manically, spitting blood.

Geralt sliced through the bruxa’s chest and she crumbled to dust.

\--

Jaskier was singing. And she was on fire. The concert was brilliant, but this was something else. She was singing for the love of her life, for her stubborn, grumpy Witcher. She was singing for Ciri, for Dara, for Triss and Yen. She was singing for the screaming audience. Fuck, she was singing for herself, and it was glorious. This wasn’t her song, but she was making it hers. She thought under the circumstances, Carly wouldn’t mind too much.

_“I wanna play where you play with the angels_

_I wanna wake up with you all in tangles, oh_

_I wanna cut to the feeling, oh yeah_

_I wanna cut to the feeling, oh yeah”_

_\--_

Geralt stood at the back of the crowd, panting, blood still racing from the fight. Yen and Triss were with the injured, doing what they could while they waited for the ambulances to arrive. Yen had told Geralt to go watch the rest of the performance, and Geralt, slightly shocked, had complied. So now she was watching Jaskier, a smile spreading across her face. Jaskier was strutting, dancing across the stage, bright pink skirts whirling. She was singing about a wild, spectacular love, and Geralt knew that the song was for her.

The house lights had been thrown up, so for one brief moment Jaskier looked out at the crowd and seemed to spot Geralt. Her grin grew even wider, and she flung her arms wide.

 _“I want to go all the way_ ” she sang, and that tone, the inflection she put in the words, was definitely all for Geralt.

A cry caught Geralt's attention, tearing her away from Jaskier. A woman at the edge of the crowd was shoving off a man who kept attempting to put his arms around her. Geralt marched over, sheathed sword thrown over her uninjured shoulder.

“She said no,” Geralt growled.

The man opened his mouth to say something but faltered when he took in Geralt, eyes sharp, teeth-gnashing, raw from the fight. All too happy to jump into another if it was necessary. She didn’t have her steel, but silver could also do for human monsters.

“You are lucky I’m not my girlfriend,” snarled Geralt, jerking her head towards the stage, where Jaskier was still stomping around, pink skirts spinning. “She’d rip you apart.”

The man opened his mouth but Geralt had no interest in hearing what he had to say.

“I’ll not ask you again,” she growled, spreading her mouth in a grin that wasn’t quite human. The man ran. Geralt cast an inquisitive look to the woman.

“Thank you,” she shouted, over the music. “I’m going to go find my friends. But thank you.”

The woman disappeared into the crowd and Geralt turned back to Jaskier, who was winding up for the big finish. She threw up her hands, punching the sky, and the world exploded into applause.

\--

Mic hanging limp in her hand, panting, Jaskier looked out over the audience. She was high on this feeling, euphoria bubbling in her veins. Through the hands and the screams she could just make out Geralt, that pale face gazing back up at her. Her Witcher was okay and everything truly was perfect.

Then the poor, overworked sound and lighting system, pushed to its limits and well beyond, sputtered.

The power gave a little desperate hiccup, and went out, plunging the theatre into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! the scene I have been obsessing about since I decided at 2 am three weeks ago that Carly Rae Jepsen's "Cut to the Feeling" was objectively the best song to set a sword fight to.  
> The [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qlsu7RhOnsQ) if you want to listen along  
> Of course, I also had to include Carly as the queen of brilliant b-side albums


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> encore and an end

“Oh fuck,” said Jaskier.

She stood upon a darkened stage, awash in the sound of frantic shouts and screams. For a moment there was only this dark, before a wave of phone lights rose up, like hundreds of weaving fireflies, casting dancing shadows on the walls. If she concentrated, she could almost still hear that glorious applause, feel the ringing in her ears.

Jaskier buried her face in one hand and let out a litany of curses. Of course this would happen. She had flown too close to the sun and this was her fucking reward. In a moment, when the shock wore out enough for them to think rationally, people would begin pushing their way to the exit. And Jaskier’s glorious, fantastic first concert would end, not with a bang, but with a muddled fizzle. She could see it now. In two weeks people would only laugh about the power outage that put an abrupt end to Jaskier’s concert, and go and get brunch to talk about their next concert, with a real performance that didn’t end early.

No. This was not the end. She had a song left and she was going to sing it.

Jaskier was usually of the mind that phones should be left backstage. But that was not when one’s girlfriend was off fighting a vampire, and one had sent two preteens in as backup. Snatching up her phone from where she’d left it nestled between the legs of the mic stand, Jaskier hit the favourites tab, and quickly located Ciri’s number. The screen lit up with a picture of Ciri, tongue sticking out and hay in her hair, fresh from a training session in the stables. She answered on the third ring.

“Yeah?”

“Ciri! Are you okay? Is Dara okay?” shouted Jaskier, putting a finger in her other ear to block out the noise of the crowd.

“Yes we ar-”

“Good, put Cass on.” Jaskier could practically hear Ciri’s eye roll.

The sound of fumbling came up the line, as the phone was passed over.

“What,” said Cass, sounding annoyed. Which was fair. Jaskier had pretty much done exactly what Cass had told her not to do.

“Cass, most wonderous of sound techs—”

“Jaskier, get on with it.”

“I need a spot light. A mic would be great, but really just a light.”

“Jaskier,” said Cass, in a tone remanent of a truly exhausted parent, questioning the life decisions that led them to this moment.

“Please,” Jaskier’s voice cracked, but she forced herself on. “It can’t end this way. Please, just let me have one more song.”

A silence, and then a low assenting grumble. “Fine. One song. I can’t promise you sound, but I’ll get you a light.”

“Thank you, thank you! You are truly the—” The line cut out before Jaskier could finish. Jaskier shook her head, chuckling. She turned to Pris and Essi, illuminated by the glow of their cellphones. Pris was in the process of winding up the cable for her guitar.

“One more song!” she exclaimed. This got her skeptical looks from both Essi and Pris.

“Everyone is leaving!” shouted Essi.

“Like hell they are!” yelled Jaskier. Whirling back to the crowd, she started to shout, forgetting in the moment that the microphone before her was functionally useless. “EVERYONE! THE SHOW IS STILL GOING. WAIT ONE MINUTE!” 

Later, much later, Yen would explain about the spells she and Triss had woven. Spells specifically designed to direct the attention of every person to the stage and Jaskier, and the way such spells tended to linger. But Jaskier didn’t know anything about that now. She belatedly realized the microphone was off, and looked to Essi and Pris, only to find them staring out at the crowd, with wide eyes.

Jaskier turned back to the audience, and the air left her lungs in a sudden punch of shock.

Somehow her unamplified voice had smashed through the noise and panic, reaching the ears of every person in the hall. The sounds faded away, and they all looked up at her, eager and expectant. It was if she had miraculously become the centre of the world. Jaskier smoothed out her skirts and grinned. This was more like it.

“STAND BY!” she shouted and rushed backstage.

Her sexy, lovely elfin lute was waiting where she had left it. She had brought the lute along with the vague notion that she would just surround it with microphones for her big finish. It gleamed in the beam of her cellphone light, and Jaskier ran a reverent finger over the strings before settling the lute strap across her chest. Thus outfitted, she headed back to the stage.

Cass might not have a poetic bone in their body, but they still managed to have a marvellous sense of dramatic timing. The spotlight that Jaskier had begged so desperately for sparked to life just as she stepped back to her place on the old wooden boards. She blinked in the sudden flare, her mouth curving into a massive, beaming smile. The faint hum of murmured conversations rose to delighted shouts, as Jaskier’s audience clamored to push their way closer to the stage.

An experimental tap with a finger confirmed that the microphone still wasn’t working.

This truly was crazy. But the show wasn’t over yet.

Casting a quick glance around to ensure that Pris and Essi were ready, Jaskier set her fingers on the strings. She raised her chin and looked out into the audience. In the beam of her solitary light, she could only make out the first couple of rows of expectant faces. Somewhere, she knew, at the back of this crowd, at home in these shadows, was her Witcher.

She began to sing.

_“When a humble bard graced a ride along_

_With Geralt of Rivia, along came this song”_

It was just Jaskier and her lute, a lone bard on a big stage. But her voice, the sounds she plucked from the strings, rang loud and true. A hush swept over the audience, suspended in this spell. Jaskier sang, pouring her heart into the elfin lute, fingers dancing over the strings, and felt the song reverberating in the air around her. A magic lute indeed.

_“From when the White Wolf fought a silver-tongued devil_

_His army of elves at his hooves did they revel”_

It wasn’t strictly the truth. But Jaskier wasn’t here for that. She was spinning layers of stories, plucking a fantastic tale of heroes and elves, of danger and daring. She was offering an epic story of heroes, weaving together layers of stories, carrying her rapt crowd to a world beyond their own.

_“They came after me with masterful deceit_

_Broke down my lute and they kicked in my teeth”_

It wasn’t the truth, but the truth didn’t make history. She couldn’t thrust the real magical underworld into the open, but in this shining, impossible moment, she could make them believe. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And she knew that at the heart of things, the people who needed to know already did.

_“While the Devil’s horns minced our tender meat_

_And so cried the Witcher: ‘He can’t be bleat’”_

Jaskier could just imagine Geralt’s shudder at the unfortunate pun. There was, she would admit, several ridiculous lyrics throughout this song. But once it got going, it soared around you, and it wasn’t the words so much as the feeling of the words that mattered. The sense of this wild and grand adventure.

_“Toss a coin to your Witcher...”_

Jaskier hit the chorus, and sang her appeal to the world, to give her Witcher the respect she deserved. She pictured Geralt’s hard muscles and sharp edges, the easy way she carried her swords. Her enduring sense of duty, her dedication. Her weariness. Her scars and her smiles. Her exasperated chuckles when Jaskier did something she thought was particularly ridiculous (which was all too often). Her patience, running the same drills over and over again with Ciri. Her struggle to protect Ciri while letting her grow to stand on her own. Her speed and endurance, silver sword spinning.

The little bootlegged cassette in her truck radio.

As Jaskier started in on the second verse, the microphone before her suddenly fizzed to life with a sharp crackle of static. It caught up her words and carried them even higher, as Jaskier described the edge of the world. The place she had promised she would follow Geralt to—and beyond. The stage grew brighter as more spotlights sparked into being, illuminating Essi and Pris. Leaning into their own, newly revived microphones, they began to play, Essi’s higher voice offering a haunting counterpoint to Jaskier’s.

_“That’s my epic tale: our champion prevailed  
Defeated the villain, now pour him some ale” _

It was at this point that it dawned on Jaskier that this song didn’t exactly cast elves in the best light. This had not been an issue before she learned about Dara. She carried on, resolved that this would be the first of many, many songs. She would write Dara a song of his own, and a song for Ciri, Triss and Yen. She had so much music inside her.

By the second round of the chorus, the audience began joining in, seizing on the easy repetition. She had written it that way—this was a song for everyone to sing, and to sing together.

Technically most of the songs that night had tangentially been about Geralt and Ciri, featuring their many exploits and daring fights. But this song was the one that had been tumbling through her mind in bits and pieces since that wild first night, when a grumpy woman with a sword had almost sliced her in half and grudgingly allowed her to follow along. This was her _Witcher_ song, and the one that declared for all the world to hear that her Witcher was a friend and a hero. It may be little more than subtext, but she liked to think that this song was also a promise of a future they were going to build together. The bard forever following her Witcher, singing her praises. She had actually managed to come close to the sentiment with her rather frantically chosen Carly Rae Jepsen song— _I want to go all the way_ —but she wanted to sing it her own way, in her words.

Jaskier dragged the song out repeating the chorus, dancing before her mic, until the room was full of voices raised in praise of a Witcher. A Witcher who was probably now hiding away in some shadow, cheeks flushing.

_“A friend of humanity!”_

She finished, and the audience erupted into applause.

Jaskier bowed, then pulled Essi and Pris to her side and bowed again together.

“That’ll do, pig. That’ll do,” laughed Pris in Jaskier’s ear, and Jaskier playfully shoved her away.

“It’s the dress,” added Essi.

“HAHA, very funny,” said Jaskier, grinning. Waving them off with a hand, she headed for the dressing room so she could safely stow her precious lute. She didn’t want to have it crushed when she finally located Geralt and threw herself into her arms.

Cass had managed to get the power back and running enough that there was faint lights backstage, so Jaskier wasn’t left fumbling around by the little beam of her cellphone. She was almost at the door of the green room when a voice called her name, sending involuntary shivers down her back and a sneer spreading across her face. Valdo.

“What do you want,” she snapped, turning on her heel to face him.

He wasn’t alone. A beautiful young woman was clinging to his arm, her dark eyes and hair bringing out the porcelain shine of her skin. Jaskier cast a cursory glance at the woman, before turning her glare back on Valdo. As far as she knew, he had left her for a blonde. Jaskier raised an impatient, annoyed eyebrow, setting her hands on her hips.

“Nice show, though it was a tad simplistic. All these silly fantasy metaphors,” said Valdo, his stupid too-bright smile pasted on his face. “This is Emilia, she liked the show and she wanted to come backstage and meet you in person.”

“So naturally you told her you would bring her,” snapped Jaskier. First a bruxa, then a power outage and now this. She really could not catch a break tonight.

“Naturally,” said Valdo.

“He said he was a friend of yours,” said Emilia, her voice as smooth as silk.

“Did he,” said Jaskier. “Now why the hell would he say something like that?”

Valdo only offered his stupid sneering smile and Jaskier wanted to claw it off his face.

“I want to speak to you about your Witcher,” said Emilia suddenly. There was something, Jaskier realized, different about her. She smiled, a cold, grim smile, and it stretched uncannily wide, revealing a row of sharp white teeth. Jaskier’s heart gave a sudden, desperate hiccup. A bruxa.

“She killed my sister,” she said. Her elegant fingers slowly extended, her manicured nails shifting into talons.

Valdo looked back and forth between Emilia and Jaskier, face twisting with confusion. The bruxa ignored him. Her furious gaze was solely focused on Jaskier, as her skin grew paler.

“I felt it happen,” said Emilia, voice tight.

“What the hell is happening here?” asked Valdo.

“I’m sorry,” managed Jaskier, casting her eyes frantically about. She needed a weapon, something to throw. Her ukulele was still on stage, and she had absolutely no intentions of using her elfin lute. She had a sudden vivid recollection of a silver dagger, pressed into her palm before the show. It felt like years ago now. She had laughed then, and set it down on a convenient ledge so as to better cuddle with Geralt. It should be close. She scanned the shadows of the backstage, desperately seeking out a shine of silver.

“I don’t understand,” said Valdo.

Jaskier contemplated just throwing him at the bruxa and letting her eat him first. It would solve one of her immediate problems. A the last minute she relented, scarcely believing the words when they left her own mouth. “Get behind me Valdo.”

He looked to the woman at his side, steadily shifting further and further away from the timid fangirl, and hurried to comply. Emilia made no move to stop him. It was clear Valdo was simply a tool, a means to an end. He had served his purpose. She’d probably drink Jaskier’s blood before moving on to Valdo. Which was frankly a disappointing thought. If Jaskier had to die, she’d rather watch Valdo go first.

“I still don—”

“Shut the fuck up,” hissed Jaskier.

She caught a glimmer of silver in the corner of her eye and pounced forward to grab it. The dagger felt awkward in her hands, but the weight and heft of the blade was comforting. She felt braver, staring down the bruxa, now that she had a weapon of her own. Not that she knew how to properly use it.

Emilia’s pretty mouth curved into a harsh frown. She began to prowl forward.

“Don’t come closer! Or I’ll use this. Or scream. Or maybe both,” said Jaskier, waving the dagger back and forth before her.

“That won’t be necessary,” growled a familiar voice, and a grin danced on Jaskier’s lips.

Geralt stepped up beside her, silver sword at the ready.

“You killed my sister,” the bruxa spat.

“Yes,” said Geralt, “She went too far. She broke the rules and had to pay the price.”

Emilia let out a faint wail, and the sound was enough to make Jaskier dizzy. She put a steadying hand on the wall, her dagger clutched tightly in the other. She distantly registered the sound of Valdo collapsing to the ground somewhere behind her.

“I’ll kill you,” the bruxa cried. 

“If you do that,” said Geralt, voice steady. “Then I will have to kill you.” She raised her sword. Emilia looked back and forth between Geralt’s hard gaze and the sharp point of her blade.

“There’s been enough bloodshed tonight,” continued Geralt.

“But—” started Emilia, confusion, sorrow and anger warring across her features.

“Go. Grieve. Do not make the same mistake she did. Or we will meet again soon enough.”

For one impossibly tight, tense moment, they stood there, pulse heavy in their ears. Emilia’s gaze fell to the ground, jaw tight, contemplating Geralt’s words. Geralt remained firm and statuesque all the while, sword ready, while Jaskier tensed at her side, clinging to the dagger until her knuckles were pale. Someone was going to come around the corner, or throw back the curtain, and this delicate balance would shatter. Jaskier didn’t know what would happen then. She desperately did not want to find out.

“I’ll go,” said Emilia finally. She swiftly shifted back to her human form, tears shining in her dark eyes.

“I’m sorry,” said Geralt, voice sharp and sincere. “Mind her example.”

“I will,” said Emilia. With a final piercing stare at the Witcher, she slipped through the curtains and was gone.

Jaskier dropped the dagger and threw herself at Geralt.

Geralt wrapped her arms around Jaskier, mindful of her sword and the lute on Jaskier’s back.

“I was so worried,” whispered Jaskier, pulling her closer.

“Thank you for singing for me,” murmured Geralt in Jaskier’s ear. It wasn’t clear if she was referring to _Cut to a Feeling_ , or _Toss a Coin_ or everything in between. It didn’t matter. Jaskier knew what she meant.

“Always,” said Jaskier. “I will always sing for you.”

Geralt hummed, and they stayed that way, desperately wrapped in each other, until Valdo loudly grumbled.

“Could someone tell me what the hell is happening here? Emilia??” he said, staggering to his feet.

Jaskier disentangled from Geralt’s arms so she could slap him.

“I can’t believe I just saved you, you fucking asshole!”

She slapped him again before he could open his mouth to reply. She was starting in on a third, and contemplating a good throat punch, when Geralt’s familiar arms circled around her.

“That’s enough,” she said, “No need to add an aggregated assault charge to this evening.”

Jaskier struggled for a moment before letting out a long, loud sigh, and nodding. 

“Ugh fine,” she said, and Geralt released her.

A second later Geralt had sheathed her sword and backed Valdo against the wall, hand wrapped in the collar of his shirt. She was several inches taller, and he was forced to look up to meet her eyes. Geralt hissed something Jaskier couldn’t make out, but it made Valdo’s face go about five shades paler. He frantically nodded, and sprinted away when she finally let him go.

“What was that?” asked Jaskier, setting her hands on her hips.  
“Just some things I’ve been meaning to say to Valdo for a while,” said Geralt, shrugging. She winced and haltingly admitted that her left shoulder was covered in deep cuts.

“Triss or Yen will see to them soon enough,” she added, seeing Jaskier’s worried expression. “They are just waiting for the ambulances to take the wounded to our hospital.”

“So everyone—”

“Is fine, yes. But it was close.”

The bubble of laughter spilled out of Jaskier before she could hold it in. Another faintly traumatic, stress-inducing night for the books.

Leaning into Geralt’s side she declared, “You are going to take me to that lovely country cottage of yours and we are going to have a bath and never talk about this ever again.”

“That’s not a very exciting after-party,” came the wry voice of Yen, striding into view, Triss at her side. Trailing behind them, looking vaguely guilty but mostly giddy with adrenaline, was Ciri and Dara. 

Geralt’s eyes immediately fixed on Ciri, and a scowl spread across her face. “Ciri—” she started, growling, but Yen waved a hand, cutting her off.

“Oh we will be discussing in detail together just how exactly to punish this wayward Cub,” she said, in a tone that suggested that such punishments would be suitably harsh. Ciri cringed, and Geralt nodded.

“But for tonight,” she wrapped an arm around Triss’ shoulders, and Triss happily sagged into her side. In the low light backstage, Jaskier could just make out darker splashes of red across Triss’ red velvet dress. “We deserve a treat.”

\--

That is how Jaskier found herself waiting in line for ice cream with a witch, a monster-hunter-in-training and an elf at 1am. A note on her phone held the orders for Triss and Geralt, who were outside, Triss cleaning up the cuts on Geralt’s shoulder.

With the help of Geralt, Ciri, Dara and the Sorrows, they’d made short work of packing up the gear. Essi and Pris had waved Jaskier on. They were off to grab drinks with a couple of members of the Sorrows, who seemed to have formed a temporary truce. Jaskier had Pris and Essi booked for several gigs in the next couple of weeks—plenty more opportunities to celebrate together post-concert. Plenty more times for weird shit to happen. Jaskier pulled them into a group hug, promised in a vague way to explain some of the stuff that had gone down soon, saluted Cass, and headed for the door, hand in hand with her Witcher. 

Yen used the time in line to remind Ciri and Dara just how irresponsible their decision to sneak out had been. But from the gleam in their eyes Jaskier had the sense that this was to be only the first of their many exploits. And the small wry smile on Yen’s face, which Jaskier caught when she looked away to the menu, suggested that she wasn’t half as angry as she seemed. Jaskier apologized to Dara for the less than flattering portrayal of elves, and he had her promise two songs specifically heralding the epic tales of the elves and at least three favours. The smirk he offered Ciri after made Jaskier suspect that beneath his mature and serious facade he might be the same, if not more, of a troublemaker as Ciri. She resolved to write him an entire song cycle. 

A chocolate milkshake in one hand, and a sundae for Geralt in her other, Jaskier followed Yen out of the McDonalds. Triss and Geralt were waiting for them, perched on the curb. Yen elegantly sat down beside Triss, handing over the strawberry shake and receiving a soft kiss in return. Ciri and Dara tumbled down beside them, each holding sundaes piled high with sprinkles and syrup.

Jaskier passed Geralt down her sundae: a simple banana split, with no syrup (Geralt was still far boring when it came to dessert foods). She looked down at Geralt pointily, until the Witcher got the hint, and spread her jacket over the curb. Jaskier happily collapsed beside her, spreading out the layers of bright pink tulle.

“You’re ridiculous,” said Geralt, a laughing smile teasing her face. 

“Yep,” crowed Jaskier, taking a sip of her milkshake.

She leaned against Geralt, looking over her friends—a group of people more extraordinary than she ever could have imagined. Yen was in the process of complaining to Triss about how “That darn _Toss a Coin_ song is going to be stuck in my head for ages now”, while Ciri and Dara were conspiratorially whispering, probably planning their next adventure.

She turned to Geralt, who was looking down at her with fond, golden eyes.

 _“That’s my epic tale: our champion prevailed,”_ she sang, and leaned in for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly delayed by a power outage of my own--but finally an end! 
> 
> It is perhaps too many words, spilling out in too many directions, but this story has been keeping me company for a while and I've had so much fun with this bard and her witcher. I am oh so grateful for everyone who has taken a chance on this sequel of an AU of an AU. Thank you to L for letting me send random snippets and blab about Witcher stuff. And thank you to everyone for your wonderful comments and kudos, they always leave me grinning.  
> I hope you are all keeping safe and well.


End file.
